


devil's waltz

by nebuloussubject



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Canon-compliant ish, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Illness, Past Relationship(s), Sickfic, Slow Burn, just mentions of louis with an ex, no death tho lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28337889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebuloussubject/pseuds/nebuloussubject
Summary: 'The physical and emotional distance between them feeling far wider and more expansive than it had before. All he wanted was to hold his boy, and to tell him he loved him, that it won’t hurt forever.'Harry and Louis haven't talked in years, and it's good that way. It is. But Harry hears rumours that Louis isn't doing that well. A rushed text and an anaesthetic-fuelled voice message later, Harry finds himself in Louis' hospital room. Really quite unsure of how he got there at all.aka. a sickfic with a slow burn.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Louis Tomlinson/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 103





	1. part 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from the w h auden's 'poem'. 
> 
> hope you enjoy this sad little fic! the second (and final) chapter will be up in just a couple of days. also, def not a medical expert, so indulge me a little. 
> 
> disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, no depictions are based on any fact, and any coincidences are purely that.

The plane jerks violently, and Harry’s eyes fly groggily open against the small window. He pulls his head back and rubs a hand down his drawn and dull face, sighing out the weariness the last nine hours of flight time thrust on him. With bleary vision he watches the small patch of fog fade around the edges from where his nose was pressed against the window, the roar of the plane’s engine cutting through the music playing through his headphones. 

He glances at the small screen off to his right, it tells him there’s only just over an hour left of the flight before it touches down in London. Harry’s eyes fixate again on the window, he stares blankly at the fast approaching sunrise that the plane seems to be chasing. Just out of reach over the horizon, bathing the clouds far below it in its gentle glow. His eyes fall closed with the pull of overtiredness, they don’t open again until the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac. 

It seems like hours later that Harry pulls open the heavy door of his Hampstead house, and the deep and musty smell of a momentarily abandoned home washes over him silently. 

Silence. The second thing that hits him. 

The emptiness of the large hallway in front of him seems to echo in waves. Different from the bustle of New York and LA, where he’s just spent the last few months. He drops his bag and coat in the corner, and deciding that was tomorrow's problem he starts to climb the stairs up to the inviting bed sheets he knew were cleaned not too long ago in preparation for his arrival home. As he sinks into the pillows fully clothed he vaguely thinks he should brush his teeth, but exhaustion overtakes him, and once again he falls into a deep yet fitful sleep. 

** 

Harry wakes to light filtering through the shutters in his room, he picks up his phone from the bedside table and sees it’s nearing 9 in the morning. He drags himself out of bed and wanders into the bathroom, turning on the shower and steam soon fills the room. Harry glances in the mirror and surveys the damage of the many hours of travel he’s done over the past month. His eyes are a little sunken in, the slight purple tinge of the bags evidence of many late nights and a few too many drunken decisions. He was glad to be home, to have some peace and quiet for a while. The many Christmas and New Year’s parties he’d attended over the past week had been draining and he was glad to be away from it, no matter how cold and dreary the weather was here. The grey blanket sitting low over a hungover London was comforting in its own melancholic way. 

He was planning on staying in London for just under a month, knowing he would have to head back to the States at some point in late January. Though he really hoped he could stick around long enough to head up north for his birthday, but he wasn’t holding out hope. The amount of time he’d been given by the many men in suits was already a luxury. 

The water hits his skin, enveloping him and making him warm again, the thrum of the pipes drowning everything else out. 

The next few days pass in a hazy blur, mostly making a lot of toasted sandwiches and pasta and tea, and responding to a lot of texts from friends letting them know that he wasn’t available for a few days. _Bake Off_ blares as a constant backdrop to his daily routine, and he becomes emotionally attached to a couple of contestants and is glad no one is around to see him cry both happy and sad tears over some choice moments of the show. He is alone, but he’s aware that he doesn’t feel so lonely, it feels good to be by himself for a while. Quiet and reflective. He writes, not songs, but paragraphs of consciousness as he sits in his back garden wrapped in a blanket trying to keep warm against the early January chill. He doesn’t touch his guitar or piano upstairs in his study, but melody’s float through his head without warning and he hums them absentmindedly into his phone, saving them for when he’s back in LA. It makes him a little sad that it’s not so much an escape now, but something he feels he needs to save for a time when he’s ‘working’. But maybe that’s just how this gig goes. Maybe it can be both again soon. 

It’s his sixth day back in London before his friends have bothered him into oblivion and have convinced him to head out to a small bar in the north of London to catch up, and he is looking forward to it, but leaving his cocoon of quiet is a little difficult. Harry grumbles to himself as he pulls on his shirt, clasping on a few bits of jewelry before grabbing a thick coat and long scarf, his phone buzzes telling him that his car is just outside. 

** 

Hot air and a cacophony of shouts bombard Harry as he pushes open the heavy door of the bar, and he sees his friends waving madly at him from the back corner of the small, warmly-lit room. His heart immediately fills with something intensely lovely, his face splitting into a huge grin as he kisses them all on the cheeks and gets pulled into bone-crushing hugs while being yelled at that ‘it’s been too long!’. He sits himself down between Pixie and a man he doesn’t know, who just smiles genially at him and doesn’t introduce himself as he turns back to continue his conversation with someone who Harry vaguely remembers as someone named Daniel, with whom he also exchanges a smile. The night is boisterous and loud and so much fucking _fun_ , and Harry forgets how good it is to be home and be with his friends, who he doesn’t have to impress and can laugh stupidly with and lay his head on their shoulders and just drink in the joy. At some point he wanders to the bar with Lou tucked under his arm, her blonde hair tickling his chin and her laugh reverberating in his chest. He orders a few drinks for the table and he hears someone talking to the right of him. 

“...yeah, he says it’s just precautionary, but still, it’s shit you know?” the man says, loudly and slightly drunkenly.

“Poor fucking lad, it’s not like he needs it. Needs a fucking break is what Louis needs,” the other man says, and reflexively Harry spins around, the room following for a second. _Maybe he’s had more drinks than he thought he’d had_. He sees the man he was sitting next to at the table talking with Daniel again, looking concerned, small frown lines between his eyebrows. 

Without even realising he was speaking, Harry blurts out, “What was that?” 

Both the men turn their heads in surprise, mouths slightly open, perhaps unsure what to say. But the man without a name says after a few beats, “Nothing mate, but I think your drinks are ready,” and he gestures to the bar. Harry looks back and sure enough, the few glasses he’d ordered were sitting on the counter and Lou was already picking up a couple, seemingly unaware of the exchange. 

Harry looked back again to the two men, and they were already picking up their drinks and moving away from the bar. His cheeks feel suddenly aflame, like he’s just been embarrassed and he’s not entirely sure why. He was just asking a fucking question, and about someone he’s certain that he knows more about that Daniel and his nameless mate. It still grates at him after all these years, that he can’t wear their past proudly, no matter how poorly it ended. 

Harry nudges Lou on their walk back, and asks her, “Lou, who was that guy, speaking to Daniel at the bar?” 

Lou glances back at the bar and says, “Uh, think his name is Alex? He’s dabbled with guys I’ve heard actually. Are you interested, love?” 

Harry shook his head quickly, “No, no. Just thought they were...don’t worry about it, was just wondering that’s all,” he trails off, unsure how to ask about what he’s just heard. He doesn’t even understand what they were talking about, really. 

The night surges onwards, they dance and hug, and he plants kisses on a thousand cheeks and he wishes he could do it a thousand times more. He’s missed his friends something desperate. Eventually, he pours himself into a car, limbless and quite drunk. Before long, he’s stumbling through his front door, leaving a trail of clothes as he strips down to his pants before collapsing in bed. The room spins from behind his eyes, the bed feeling as if he’s on an old boat in a storm, and he fumbles around on his bedside table to down an old glass of water in a desperate attempt to stave off a hangover in the morning. He curls himself into a ball, hugging a pillow and soon falls into a deep sleep. 

** 

Harry’s eyes crack open through crusty lashes, his mouth feeling as though a small furry animal had died suddenly overnight in it. He pushes himself cautiously up onto his forearms, and miraculously there is no roll of his stomach but he does indeed have a fucking _splitting_ headache. He lays his throbbing temple against his headboard, the pressure stemming the pulsing for just a moment. 

He reaches blindly for his phone, and grimaces at the brightness of the screen before turning it down in an instant. Now easier to look at, he flicks open the lock screen and to his bemusement lands on a drunken open web search. 

_loui s tomlsioon_

Confusedly, the events from the night before stumble back to him in pieces. The man at the bar, Alex right? And Daniel, talking about Louis. At least he thinks it was Louis. Though lots of people are named Louis, could be anyone. He vaguely remembers typing in this search in the car home, or was it at the bar? 

He’s just curious, right? Worried. He remembers Alex saying something about precautionary? What’s that even supposed to mean? 

_God_. It’s been so many years at this point. He hates that he's still so desperate for any glimpse, any sort of insight. It’s so much worse when he’s drunk as well, absolutely no self control. 

Harry stuffs his fingers into burning eyes and lets out a bodily sigh, closes and opens his phone two times. Then eventually gives in and looks at the search results. 

There’s no deluge of news, but there are a few short articles and a couple of pictures from just after Christmas of Louis in London, exiting The London Clinic, a hospital Harry recalls. His face hidden mostly by a hoodie and a strategically placed hand. The articles tell him nothing of import as he scrolls quickly through them, just that Louis may be there visiting family or for personal health concerns. But nothing beyond that. Harry thinks back to what he remembers from the night before, _‘Needs a fucking break that’s what Louis needs._ ’

Harry’s mind moves through the tragedies of the past few years in Louis’ life, and he does, he desperately needs a break. Harry’s heart aches, a familiar pit of guilt forming in his stomach as he thinks about how much has happened. How much he hasn’t been there for. Knowing that he’ll not ever be there for Louis again, it’s just not possible at this point. He glances down at his phone, trying to discern something else from that image that it can’t tell him. He just wants to know that Louis is okay. 

It’s then that his stomach decides to revolt on him, as he feels his face break out into a cold sweat he throws off his covers, moving quickly on shaky legs to the bathroom where he falls hard on his knees and begins to gag into the toilet bowl. After a few minutes, he reaches up to shut the lid and flush the toilet, sitting against his bathtub, cool ceramic against his back. He shuts his eyes and wishes away the feelings gnawing a hole in his stomach that he can no longer attribute to just a hangover. 

** 

Later that day, after a couple of bananas and some eggs on toast Harry is feeling marginally better but still can’t shake the sick feeling in his stomach. It’s been a long while since he’s been unable to shake thoughts of Louis from his head. Flashes of memory make his chest hurt, harsh words, aching throats, and so many tears. Louis’ reddened face screaming at him, and the slamming of doors. Him, sitting on the bathroom floor, pulling at his own hair; frustrated and angry and so fucking _sad_. 

It’s been so many years. _Five and a half_ , he thinks absentmindedly. 

As he’s loading up his dishwasher and contemplating a walk to the shops to get something for dinner, his ears perk at the mention of Louis’ name on the radio that’s playing in the background. He rushes to pick up his phone and turns up the volume. 

“... I know many of you were looking forward to hearing Louis come into the studio to introduce his new single for us and give a cheeky live performance, but unfortunately there've been some issues and there’s had to be a cancellation. We are definitely going to try and reschedule, but for now we’ll just have to play his banging new song regardless! Look out for that coming up within the hour, but for now, it’s time for a news break and sports.” 

Harry turns down the radio again, and the sick feeling starts to return. Something really must be wrong, it’s not just an overheard conversation, a vague article, or a potential mistaken name. He leans forward on his kitchen counter, holding himself steady and decides that this feeling probably isn’t going to go away on its own. He just needs to text someone, find out some sort of information that will put his racing mind at ease and that’ll be it. It’ll be fine. It will be. 

He grabs his phone and shoots out a quick text to Lou, who he knows is still in touch with Lottie, and he waits a beat before sending out the same text to Niall, trying to forgo the slight embarrassment he feels from doing so. It’s not the first time he’s texted Niall for updates on Louis in the last few years. He bitterly thinks, _and it probably won’t be the last_. 

_Hey, just wondering if you’d heard anything from Louis lately? Just saw a couple of things and got a little worried. Thanks x_

He finds himself anxiously waiting by his phone, not really doing much of anything and then gets completely fed up with himself and decides that he’ll just go and take a shower and decidedly not take his phone with him. Watched pot never boils and all that. 

By the time he comes back down stairs, strands of wet hair framing his unshaven face and dripping slowly down the expanse of his neck, there’s a text from Niall. 

_No haven’t heart anything mate, why?_

Despite himself, Harry lets out a small sigh of relief, his head going a little dizzy for a moment. If there was something really wrong, Louis would tell Niall, there’s no way he wouldn’t. As he’s still looking down at his phone, he sees another text through from Lou, he taps on the notification quickly and reads. 

_Lottie says she’s been a bit worried about him lately, but I think he’s been okay? Did have to go into hospital not long ago but I think Lottie was saying that he was just getting some tests done. Havent heard anything since though_

And just as quickly as Harry felt the relief, panic settled into his chest again. Of course, nothing Lou had said meant anything bad was necessarily happening, but coupled with the night previous and the radio cancellation from today, Harry just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was just so terribly wrong. 

He picks up his phone with shaky hands, and starts to scroll through his messages. It takes him a long time, too long in fact to try and find the text conversation between him and Louis. He ends up having to type it into the search bar, and it quickly loads up the last conversation between the two. If you could even call it that. 

Harry: _Louis, I’m so sorry to hear about Fizzy, I can’t imagine what you and your family are going through right now. She was such a beautiful light. Sending all my love and prayers to everyone. Harry._

Louis: _Thanks x_

Harry has to place the phone face down on the counter as he clasps his eyes shut against a wave of guilt and embarrassment. He remembers labouring over that text for at least an hour, through waves of tears and heartache. Looking at it now, it seems so insignificant, he may as well have sent nothing. Three sentences to sum up the life of someone he’d watched grow up, someone who he thought of as a sister as well. He remembers feeling like that was the best he could do, and maybe it was. That’s the worst part, that maybe it was. 

He feels his throat close up and ache, fresh tears threatening to spill over past his eyelashes. Wiping them away with a shaking hand, he starts to type out a message and send it before he can even second guess himself, but there’s a small pang of regret the moment he sees the ‘Delivered’ pop up underneath it. 

_hi i don’t know if there’s anything actually wrong or not, but I hop that everythings okay with you and that youre doing okay. Just been hearing some weird stuff_

Harry cringes at the spelling mistakes, but after a while, through the guilt and the awkwardness he feels oddly relieved that he’s sent it. At least then he’ll know. Though he supposes that’s if Louis even replies. Glancing down at the open phone, Harry’s heart skips a beat as he sees the three little grey dots pop up beneath his own message. In panic, he blackens the phone screen, staring at it for a long time as if it’s a bomb that’s about to be set off. After an excruciating length of time, though in reality it must have only been a couple of minutes, a text comes through. Harry opens the phone without even picking it up from the counter, and in confusion looks at the message, it was an audio message that goes for just under a minute. He clicks the play button with only an ounce of caution, _surely_ this has to be a mistake. 

For a few moments he can only hear some scratchy audio, then Harry takes in a sharp breath as he hears Louis’ voice rings out clear and true, but it’s drawling dangerously as though he’s on the edge of sleep or had one too many drinks. 

“Harry! What a fucking surprise! You know what, you know fucking - hey, watch it! Sorry sorry, just doing your job. What was I saying? Oh, you know what, _Ha-rry_?,” Louis’ voice lilts on Harry’s name, almost accusingly, “Everything’s not that okay at the moment, mostly because you can’t get a proper fucking tea in here to save your fucking life, but other than that smashing, just brilliant.” 

There’s a long pause and Harry realises he hasn’t taken a breath since the voice message started, and he wonders whether it’s over before Louis’ voice comes through again, “Anyway, pretty shit in here, but the nurses are a bit fit so I guess it’s okay. Dying for a fucking cup of Yorkshire though, can’t have you bringing me that though Harry, can’t ever make it right can you? Maybe just bring the tea bags, express post them to The London Clinic, Room 214 and I’ll be right. Fuck this...fuck you a bit too.” 

And then the audio cuts out and Harry is left breathless and in buzzing silence. He stares in shock at the now dimmed screen of his phone, unsure of what to do with himself. Hearing Louis’ voice, after so many years, saying his name and talking _to_ him. He lets out a wet gasp of a laugh, because it was true, he never made Louis’ tea like he wanted it. It was always too sweet or too milky, or overbrewed. It became a running joke. 

But panic settles swift in Harry’s stomach as he realises there really was something wrong. Louis really is in hospital. Room 214. 

Still half-naked from his earlier shower, Harry stands barefoot in his kitchen, suddenly feeling as though he’s back in 2015, hearing the echoes of Louis’, ‘ _fuck you a bit too’_.

**

It is almost in a trance-like state that Harry moves through the next couple of hours, he rummages in his cupboard for some old Yorkshire tea and miraculously finds it, he gets dressed and shoves a beanie on his head, pulls up directions to The London Clinic, and drives. Then, almost as if by apparition he finds himself standing outside the elevator on the second floor, staring at the sign that tells him to go left down the hallway if he wants to find Room 214. 

“This is so fucking ridiculous,” Harry mutters to himself, the weight of the zip-lock bag in his pocket full of tea bags suddenly weighing on him. 

Harry strides, trying to look like he’s supposed to be there, towards Room 214. He arrives outside the closed door, and takes in a shuddering breath as he reads the name ‘Tomlinson’ on the small whiteboard to the right of the door handle. He goes to open the door, out of habit and also the voice inside his head screaming at him to check that this is real. It can’t be real, can it? At the last moment, he thinks better of it and instead knocks gently on the door. 

A small and croaky, “Come in,” reverberates from inside the room, so soft Harry could barely hear it. He pushes open the door and his nose is hit with an assault of disinfectant, but somewhere underneath that is a distinct smell he knows is _Louis_. As he rounds the corner into the room, Harry’s knees buckle slightly and he reaches for the grainy wall to his left as his eyes meet Louis’. 

_Blue_. So unfaltering in their gaze. A little red around the edges, and pulled together as his brow creases in confusion. 

The air feels completely stagnant, it’s been at least 3 years since they’ve been in a room together, and even more since they’ve been alone. Harry embarrassingly feels his eyes fill with sudden tears, blurring his vision. Louis looks so pallid lying in the bed, veins and needles popping out of the back of his hand, oxygen cannula resting beneath his nose, hair flat against a forehead that looks like it’s damp with sweat. Harry watches Louis swallow tightly, not daring to say a singular word, not moving for fear of making a sound. Like if he can be quiet enough he can unsee the boy in front of him, perhaps even disappear from this life all together. 

It could have been seconds, or it could have been hours that they held each other’s gaze before Louis swallows again, beyond the lump in his throat and begins to say, “Harry, what are you -”

He’s cut off by a sharp knock on the door, and Harry almost stumbles out of the way as it is pushed open with a, “Mr. Tomlinson? Are we decent?” 

A nurse shuts the door behind himself balancing a tray and clipboard in one hand, and turns to face Harry and Louis, completely unaware of the current situation unfolding. 

“Oh, so sorry, I didn’t realise you had a visitor. I’ve just come to do a quick vitals check. Do you mind?” the nurse says quickly, the last question directed towards Harry who suddenly realises that he’s being politely asked to exit the room. 

“Oh yeah, of course, sorry. I’ll just be - uh, sorry, I’ll just go,” Harry babbles out, catching sight of Louis’ pale and drawn face as he turns to the door and lets himself out of the room. 

He leans against the wall just outside of Louis’ room and knocks the back of his head gently against the dimpled surface, not enough to hurt but enough to try and break out of this nightmare in case that’s what was happening. What’s happened to Louis? Why does he look so ill? 

The voice in Harry’s head tells him, obviously, that he probably _is_ ill. 

Harry runs a hand down his face, contemplating how inappropriate this entire thing has ended up being. Obviously, Louis is unwell, and must have been high out of his mind on some sort of painkiller or drug when he sent Harry that audio message. He probably didn’t even want Harry there at all. Why would he? 

The nurse exits the room just moments later, shoots Harry a quick and busy smile that tells him that he’s got better things to do than worry about the tension in that hospital room. Harry contemplates not going back into the room at all, he could just walk out of this hospital and wait for another update from _The_ bloody _Sun_. But he can’t morally let himself do that, he’s gotten this far, may as well see this nightmare out. 

He cracks open the door again, forgoing knocking in favour of limiting the friction of more things to do between him and Louis. He warily rounds the corner again into the main space of the room, it’s big and private, a TV strung up high and windows with the curtains drawn, only letting in a fraction of the grey sunlight of winter. 

And again, there was Louis, eyeing him just as warily from the bed that was now propped up just marginally more. 

“Is that the nurse you were saying was fit? Because not sure if I agree,” Harry says and cringes slightly as he does so, it’s like verbal diarrhea. ‘ _Why the fuck would I say that? Out of fucking everything?_ ’ he thinks to himself.

Louis’ face only falters slightly, the cheek below the cannula twitching infinitesimally. It’s silent for a few painful moments before Louis says softly, “I never said…” he trails off confusedly, but looks Harry straight in the eyes and finishes his question from before, “what are you doing here?” 

Harry buries his hands deep in his coat pockets, feeling sweat drip down underneath his many layers. He fingers the tea bags, and squeezes them anxiously, “I texted you, just to, uh, check on you. You sent...something back, told me where you were...that you wanted proper tea.” 

Louis looks genuinely bemused, no recognition floating back into his features as Harry explains, but just says faintly, “That does sound like me.” The unspoken is the fact that it doesn’t actually sound like them at all, they don’t text, they don’t reply to each other, they don’t tell each other what hospital room they’re in. That’s not what they do anymore. Not for a long time. 

Harry doesn’t actually know what to say next, and it appears that neither does Louis. Years of distance seem to stretch between them, they are so far away from each other. Harry isn’t even sure he knows this person anymore. 

Louis reaches up to his side table where his phone is sitting, but inhales sharply when the needles in his hands pull painfully from the quick movement. Harry starts forwards, a forgotten instinct urging him to help, but Louis just reaches across with his other hand wincing slightly against the movement and grabs the phone. 

Now standing uncomfortably between the edge of the bed and the wall he was standing against, Harry rocks anxiously between his two feet, watching Louis’ features become illuminated by the phone’s blue light. He sees deep set cheekbones and storm-like purple underneath his eyes. 

Louis gnaws at his bottom lip as he scrolls, and all of a sudden the audio message starts blaring out of his phone. His eyes widen slightly, and Harry watches his mouth shape itself into a strangely familiar grimace. Harry thought that he wouldn’t listen to the whole thing, but he does, and Harry winces as Louis’ tinny voice says _fuck you_ again. As it ends, the silence rings out just as it did in Harry’s kitchen when it ended the first time. 

Louis drops his phone on the bed next to him, and the soft thud seems to reverberate off the walls. 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t haven’t sent that,” Louis says suddenly and tightly, looking off at the wall past Harry’s left shoulder, “I just had a procedure, was a bit high on the anaesthetic I think, I don’t even remember sending it...you didn’t need to come.” 

Harry tries to speak, but it gets caught in his throat. He lets out a small cough before he says, “Yeah, I know. I think I kind of figured that out after getting here. I’m sorry I did come.” He winces after saying that last part, it sounding harsh even to his ears. He’s sorry, but not like that. 

Louis just nods and seems to be chewing the inside of his mouth, so that it’s twisted something awful. 

“Did it go okay?” Harry asks. 

“What?” Louis shoots back, a little sharply. 

“Just, uh, you said you had a procedure. Did it go okay?” Harry reframes, suddenly nervous again as Louis’ eyes fall away from his and his long lashes flutter against his cheeks. 

Louis opens his mouth for a moment, shuts it again, and seems at a loss for words. Eventually he forces out, “It went fine, I think. Won’t find out properly for a couple of days.” 

Harry just nods for far too long, not wanting to pry anymore, but what else is there to say? He has a million questions about this entire situation. But it all feels so surreal, that he’s even here talking with Louis, he genuinely never thought this would ever happen again unless someone forced a band-related reunion. 

Louis seems to hear the unsaid questions, maybe they floated in the air around Harry’s head as it bursts at the seams, “It was a bone marrow biopsy.” 

Taking a singular step forward, Harry finds purchase on the end of Louis’ bed as he comes to realise what Louis has just said. 

“Right, right, sure,” Harry forces out, needing to say something, not wanting to say anything, “so that means that, what you’ve got..?” Unable to finish the sentence he trails off, feeling so fucking cowardly that he can’t even say it. 

“Cancer, they reckon. Some sort of lymphoma,” Louis croaks out, saying it so quietly and so broken that Harry hopes he’s just misheard the whole thing. But the buzzing in his ears and the bile at the back of his throat tell him that he hasn’t. 

Harry folds his arms in front of his chest, hiding his shaking hands, and tries to make eye contact with Louis who is staring determinedly at the far wall, eyes hard and set. 

“Are they...I mean, are they sure?” Harry finally chokes out. 

Louis huffs out a derisive laugh, that didn’t sound amused at all, “They already know, the biopsy is just to check what stage it’s at. What treatment to do and all that.” 

Again, Harry has a thousand questions, but there’s an ache in his throat and a disbelief that this is how it’s all ended up, all he can ask through tears threatening to fall is, “Are you going to be okay?” 

Louis makes eye contact with him now, and there’s the faintest shadow of a smile on his face, but it’s sad and feels as though it’s halfway to the moon, “My doctor is optimistic, it’s early stages they think. I get checked regularly after my mum, you know, just to be safe. Turns out it’s not even the same type, close but not quite the same,” he takes in a deep breath before continuing and points to a small red incision line behind his ear, “found this great fat fucking lump on my neck, had a biopsy of it and that was that, really...sorry, you didn’t actually for any of that information.” 

Louis trails off uncomfortably, and they continue looking at each other, and it’s so raw and still so quiet. 

“No, no tell me as much as you want,” Harry says quietly. He pauses for a moment, “I’m so fucking sorry Louis, this is so, _so_ shit. _Obviously_ , it’s shit. I don’t want to downplay it. I just mean that there’s been so much happening for you, _to you_ , in the last few years and you don’t deserve it. I’m just, I’m really sorry.” 

Louis looks a little uncomfortable with the admission and probably the pity, and says with a small self-deprecating smirk, “I would’ve thought that in your eyes if there was anyone who deserved it, it’d be me.” 

Harry’s face falls, stricken, as though he’s been hit with lightening, “Louis, Christ, I would _never_...I wouldn’t, you don’t, I-” 

“Harry, don’t, I’m sorry that was a shit thing to say,” Louis says quickly, holding up a hand, “I know you wouldn’t, this is all just a bit of a shock I think, and I’m tired and I’m still groggy from the biopsy. I’m sorry, I’m a wanker.” 

Harry swallows thickly, and nods his head with pursed lips trying to hold it all together, “You’re not a wanker, of course you’re tired. I’ll, uh, just get out of your hair, then.” 

He starts to step backwards towards the door, still holding Louis’ gaze unsure whether he wants him to ask him to stay or tell him to leave. In the end, Louis says nothing, just stares at him tiredly, eyes drooping dangerously. 

“You didn’t have to come,” Louis says suddenly. 

“You already said that,” Harry replies in almost a whisper. 

Louis ducks his head and his mouth twists into a smile, and Harry hopes that’s really his way of saying, _thanks for coming_.

With a jolt, Harry’s back hits the wall opposite the bed and he turns without another word and pushes the door open. The hallway outside is too bright, and far too noisy. He feels as though he’s stepped out of a reverie, and he wonders whether it even happened at all or was it just somewhere in purgatory. He starts his walk down to the carpark, and tries not to turn back for some reason he can’t entirely explain. He steps out into the freezing winter air and stuffs his hands in his coat pockets when he feels the zip-lock of tea bags hiding. Harry contemplates just getting in his car and going home, but he can’t help himself. He runs back inside and quickly finds himself at Louis’ door again, he pushes it open and steps inside. 

Louis is asleep already, mouth slightly agape and lithe fingers gripping the bed sheet at his side. Harry takes a moment to drink it all in, knowing that he’s unlikely to have this moment again, that this was an anomaly. After a few moments, he drops the tea bags on Louis’ bedside table and uses a sharpie he finds in the drawer to write on the plastic, _‘For your ‘proper fucking tea’. Enjoy x H.’_

Harry drives the 20 minutes home in silence. Trying to swallow the enormity of what he’s just experienced, it feels sacred and cursed all at once. He never wants it to end, feeling the warmth of Louis’ presence once again. But he also feels the latent pool of anger simmering in the pit of his stomach, only reappearing when he’s alone again. Maybe it’s okay to exist in a duality like that. All he knows is that there is a burn in him that wants, no _needs_ , Louis to be okay. 

  
  


**

Harry tries to continue with his life as per normal routine, but unsurprisingly he’s finding it incredibly difficult. He lies in his bed late at night perhaps wondering if it even happened at all, or it was some bizarre dream turned nightmare. He checks the text conversation between him and Louis a few too many times to convince himself that the entire thing _did_ in fact actually happen. He can’t even bring himself to talk about it with anyone, not Gemma or Lou or Niall or Nick or anyone. He feels strangely protective of that three hour window of his life on a dreary Sunday afternoon, like if he tells someone the glass will shatter around it and it will cease to exist entirely. 

Harry is sat under his back porch the next day, rain drizzling on the iron roof above him, the smell of fresh rain and dirt abundant. He’s got a coffee mug in hand that’s too hot to drink yet but it’s warm and inviting, and a book whose pages are flicking gently in the soft wind. 

The soft chime of his phone almost goes unheard over the rain, but Harry’s eyes flick to it immediately and he sees the text that he’s been half hoping for and half terrified of getting for the past 24 hours. 

**Louis Tomlinson**

He places his book and tea down on the table and hungrily opens the phone with slightly shaking hands. 

_Thanks for the tea, they’ve only got that twinings shit here. Tastes like sewer water_

Harry grins stupidly down at the phone and replies straight away, fuck looking like he has a life or anything. 

_You’re welcome. How dare they, posh tory bastards_

Louis replies almost instantaneously as well, though Harry supposes he really _hasn’t_ got anything much better to do if he’s holed up in that room. 

_Though you were a bit bloody stingy. Only five bags??_

A shit-eating grin returns to Harry’s face and his heart feels inexplicably light, like he’s 18 again. 

_It’s all I had in the house! Might be a bit wary of it actually, not so much a tea drinker these days so I imagine it’s a bit old_

Louis replies, _Ahh you’ve become a coffee convert then? Unsurprising, young harry was always easily led_

Harry’s heart swoops without warning at Louis using his name in a text, and _god_ , it’s all a bit much. Even letting Louis in on the fact that, yes, he has become a coffee drinker feels strange, like he should have known that already. But of course he doesn’t, why would he? 

_Easy there, I’ll still have a tea if it’s offered. Havent shaken all my northern roots_

_Well thank god for that_ , Louis replies. 

Harry isn’t sure how to continue the conversation, but somewhere deep within him he wants it to, though it all feels too close and too far away at the same time. He waits a few moments for Louis to send through another text, but it never comes. 

So instead he sends through, _thank god indeed_. 

Louis doesn’t reply, Harry doesn’t blame him, he wouldn’t either. He’s just a little lost for words at the moment, too scared to say anything lest it breaks the glass. 

**

Louis doesn’t text for another three days, and Harry had almost resigned himself to the fact that this small chapter of his life was over and he was just going to have to read all about Louis in the tabloids and bum second-hand information off of Lou or Niall. 

Harry almost misses the text entirely as he throws his phone on his bed on his way to the shower after an incredibly sweaty workout, just barely seeing it light up the blanket. He picks it up again and startles at Louis’ name on the screen, but opens it quickly and reads. 

_Hey, are you busy?_

And he isn’t, he knows he’s got another two and a half weeks left of his break before he’s scheduled to head back to LA (or was it New York?), he’s got a few social things lined up and he wants to go visit his Mum up north, but other than that he is free. Harry sits on the open text for a few minutes, imagining what lies on the other side of that simple question. 

_Not at all, what’s up?_ Harry replies. 

The three grey dots appear immediately and a text from Louis comes through moments later, _Don’t feel obligated at all, but I just need a hand with something and I can’t do it by myself_

Harry stares down at the message and is just about to start typing out a reply, but another text comes through from Louis, and Harry can almost see the grimace he’s sure Louis has on his face. 

_Sorry to ask, i just wasn’t sure who else to go to. Don’t feel like you have to help, just thought id ask_

Harry replies quickly, not wanting to make Louis wait, _I’m definitely free, don’t apologise for asking. What do you need?_ He assumes it’s a grocery run, or a strange way of asking for more tea. He’s just so unsure why Louis is asking _him_. Surely he’s got other people he can go to for something like this, in a time of genuine need. He can’t imagine that ‘ex-boyfriend, ex-bandmate, someone I haven’t spoken to personally in 5 years’ is the top of Louis’ list. Maybe everyone else is busy. Has to be that. 

_Thanks mate_ , Louis replies and Harry’s stomach turns slightly at the use of ‘mate’, he doesn’t think Louis’ ever called him that before, it feels wrong. Louis’ reply keeps coming, _I’ve got a nurse coming tomorrow, but I think the biopsy needle site on my hip is infected and i cant get the dressing off. Dont want her to come tomorrow and think im a fucking idiot you know_

Harry winces and replies, _of course, do you want me to come now? Want me to bring anything?_

He almost feels the exhale of breath in Louis’ reply, _nah just yourself, thanks you’re doing me such a massive favour. Im at 12 compton ave in highgate. Come whenever is good for you_

God, he’s only 15 minutes away. For some reason that makes Harry’s chest ache, _just have to shower and I’ll be on my way. Half an hour max_

Louis just sends back a thumbs up and Harry gently throws his phone back on the bed and almost in a trance he goes to shower and dress himself perhaps faster than he ever has in his life. His hands sweat against the steering wheel on the drive over despite the single digit weather outside. As he watches the time tick down on his nav he can feel his heart more and more until it’s somewhere in his throat and it’s a loud whooshing in his ears. 

He pulls up to the driveway slowly, and without even pushing the button for the gate it starts to open automatically and Harry hears the faint buzz from the intercom telling him that Louis has let him in. He clambers out of the car and walks up to the beautiful detached house, he admires the vines that climb up past the windows and the original fixtures. It was a beautiful house. His gaze travels down towards the large deep green front door, and he almost does a double take as he sees Louis standing half hidden behind it as it’s cracked open. 

“Hurry up, it’s fucking cold out here,” Louis says as they make eye contact, his voice is gentle, playful almost; but Harry can see him shaking a little so he puts on a little jog to reach the front door quicker and follows Louis inside. 

The inside is just as lovely, Harry can see doorways and ceilings lovingly restored mixed in with modern art pieces and sleek dark furniture. It’s so _Louis_. 

“Your place,” Harry starts as he looks around, “it’s really beautiful.” 

“I’ve been here a couple of years, so I’ve had time to do it up how I’d like,” Louis says as he perches on the corner of a couch, “not quite finished though.” 

Harry nods and takes his first proper look at Louis, his face looks pale and drawn and his eyes are red-rimmed and watery, like he hasn’t slept in a hundred years. He’s got his hands stuffed into the pocket of the hoodie he’s wearing, almost like he’s trying to hold himself as he’s hunched over just a little too far. 

The silence stretches between them again, so many things unsaid. 

Eventually, Louis coughs quietly to clear his throat and says, “Do you want a tea or shall we just get started?” 

“No tea anymore, remember?” Harry says with a little smile, trying to make light of something. 

“I distinctly remember you saying that you’d take a tea if offered, manners manners,” Louis chides with a wry smile on his face. 

Harry drops his chin to his chest with a small laugh, “I suppose I did, but regardless, I’m alright. We can just get started if you want.” 

Louis just nods, the smile fading from his face slowly, “Yeah, yeah let’s do it then. Sorry, it’s kind of gross I think. The dressing is just stuck to the wound and honestly I’m too chicken shit to tear it off and I can’t see it and I just don’t want-” 

“You don’t need to explain, Louis, here to help,” Harry says, cutting off Louis’ anxious rambling. 

Louis exhales long and slow, “Let’s do it in the bathroom, then.” He starts walking off and Harry follows, taking the stairs up to the second floor and leads them into a large bathroom just off the master bedroom. Harry sees a glimpse of an unmade bed of bright white sheets and a room bathed in the wintery glow of sunlight through large bay windows. 

Louis leads him over to the edge of the bathtub where he seems to have some medical supplies laid out. Some gauze, some white tape, and disinfectant. Harry has a last minute thought to wash his hands in the sink. 

“I was supposed to change it yesterday myself, but I figured it could maybe wait until the nurse came but now it feels warm and sore to the touch,” Louis says sheepishly. 

“Okay, let’s have a look then,” Harry says, a lot calmer than he’s really feeling, wiping his hands on the soft towel next to the sink. 

Louis peels off his hoodie and reveals a ratty t-shirt that’s a little torn around the collar and a faded blue. He lifts up the bottom of that on his right side, just showing his hip area and a sizeable wound dressing. 

“So, do you want me to just take it off and replace it?” Harry says, perhaps trying to delay the process as much as possible. 

“Uh yeah, please,” Louis says, his voice shaking a little, “and maybe just check if it looks fucked up at all. I have a script for some antibiotics, just need to know if I should take them.” 

“Okay, you ready then?” Harry says, placing his fingers at the edge of the dressing, and Louis was right, the skin was on _fire_ , “I’m going to start now.” 

Louis nods and his head drops as Harry starts to peel the bandage off. His stomach does a little turn as it starts to reveal some dried blood, and it begins to catch on the needle site and Louis lets out a sharp breath of pain. 

“Sorry, sorry sorry sorry sorry,” Harry whispers quickly, his forehead creasing with worry, “halfway there, almost done.” 

Harry continues to peel off the bandage, trying to move quickly but also not open the wound too much. Finally, the sticky edge of it leaves Louis’ skin and Harry looks at the dried blood and the deep hole left by the biopsy needle. The skin around it bright red and hot to the touch in the centre. 

“I think it is infected, it’s red and hot, doesn’t look too flash to be honest,” Harry says, throwing the dirty bandage in the bin in the corner of the bathroom. He looks back at Louis, who’s just nodding but looking a little grey around the edges. 

“You alright?” Harry asks trepidatiously, as Louis rubs at his eyes. 

Louis doesn’t respond for a few moments, “Uh, I’m just a little, I can’t hear...it’s hot, I-” 

He cuts himself off, swaying dangerously on the edge of the bath. Harry takes two big strides towards him and catches his upper arm as Louis slumps forwards. 

“Hey, hey, hey, Louis? Speak to me, hey Louis! Oh _fuck_ ,” Harry frantically says as he gently leads Louis down to the floor, letting his back rest on the bathtub. Only a few moments later, Louis’ eyes flutter open, but his head lolls backwards with a groan. 

“I don’t feel good,” Louis slurs out, “dizzy...can’t hear.” 

Harry tries to hide his panic, grabbing a towel from the rack and places it on the floor and leads Louis again to lay him down, “You’re okay, you’re okay,” he says quietly, trying to convince himself. 

Louis’ eyes shut, and Harry wipes away a few beads of sweat from his forehead where they’re sticking down strands of hair.

“Do I need to call someone? An ambulance?” Harry ventures after a minute or so. 

“No, no no, I’m feeling… a bit better,” Louis says, but Harry takes a small sigh of relief when he sees some colour coming back into his cheeks and when Louis opens his eyes and they’re not completely glazed over. 

“You sure?” Harry asks, shaky and quiet. 

“Mm, yeah I’m sure, just went all funny, was so dizzy and faint. Couldn’t hear anything except this loud ringing,” Louis says, bringing his own trembling hand up to wipe the sweat off his face. 

Harry bites his lip and his heart rate starts to slow down, “Happens sometimes I think, I get that when I go in for a vaccination. They have to lay me down on the table before it even starts.” 

Louis lets out a huff of a laugh, and quietly says, almost wistfully, “I remember that.” 

They make eye contact, and after a few moments it’s like they both become aware of the situation they’re in. Harry leaning over the top of Louis, who’s laying down prone on the bathroom floor, sticky blood on his side, grey as the winter outside. How strange. 

Harry looks away and says, “I’ll give you a couple of minutes, then we should patch you up. Don’t wanna leave the wound open for long I think. You can do it laying down.” 

Louis looks away as well, “Yeah, that sounds good...sorry about this, I’m sure it’s not what you envisaged your day to be like. Looking after me having a blackout after ripping off a glorified bandaid.” 

Tipping his head back and letting a short laugh Harry says, “I suppose not, but gotta make the best of the situation, hey?” 

“I just don’t think I’ve had enough to eat,” Louis starts, and then seems to reconsider, “and not to sound like a baby, but it did hurt like a fucker.” 

“Unsure if saying ‘fucker’ does sound like a baby, so I think you’re in the clear,” Harry smiles out. 

“Funny man,” Louis chuckles as he moves himself to a seated position and blinks hard, leaning his head against the bathtub again, “I’m ready for round two.” 

  
  


**

Harry takes the tea the second time he’s offered it, he’s sitting with it on Louis’ couch downstairs with Louis opposite him. Time feels stretchy and fluid, he can’t tell if they’ve been sitting in silence for 30 seconds or 10 minutes. And the silence feels thunderous, almost deafening. He can faintly hear the traffic outside, and the gentle pat of rain on the windows, but nothing as loud as the buzzing and static air between them. 

Placing his tea down on the coffee table in front of him, Harry lets out a sigh that seemed too loud, trying to work himself up to saying something. 

“Why’d you ask _me_ to come?” Harry bursts out and Louis’ face twitches uncomfortably, and Harry feels the need to back it up with, “not that I’m not happy to, I’m just...I’m just confused, sure you understand why.” 

“Because we haven’t talked in five years and we broke each other’s hearts?” Louis says bluntly, there’s only a small hint of lightness beneath an awful lot of misery. It’s been a long time, but the pain is still just simmering below the surface of their skin. 

Harry’s mouth just falls open slightly, really not expecting Louis to say it at all. They’re _obviously_ both aware of the hurt they caused each other, and it’s been laid to rest as much as it possibly can. As much as Harry ever thought it would be, anyway. And that was enough, it really was. Unfinished conversations and cold-shoulders had become their norm, and it was better that way. It was better than this - sitting across from each other, silent and scared of talking, like _fucking_ strangers. 

“Exactly,” Harry almost whispers. 

“Turns out...you’re the only one that really knows anything about all this,” Louis finishes uncomfortably, gesturing vaguely to his side where the new bandage sits. 

“No one else knows?” Harry asks, aware that is exactly what Louis just said but feeling dumbfounded enough to ask it anyway. 

Louis shakes his head slowly, “No one else.” 

“Not even your family?” Harry asks, his voice still confused. 

“God, fuck, _especially_ not my family,” Louis says, running a hand through his hair that Harry notices is bruised and pockmarked from needles.

“They’d want to know, Louis, they’d want to help,” Harry says reflexively. 

Louis turns his head sharply to look at Harry, teeth almost bared, “And how the fuck would you know?”

Harry suddenly wishes he still had his cup of tea in his hands so he had something to occupy them with as they start sweating. He wants to say because they _would_ want to know and they _would_ want to help, that Louis needs the support of the people that know and love him the most, that he knows these people and they’re good and kind, and he knows this because they were _his_ family too. If only for a little while. 

But he doesn’t say any of these things, he just sputters out, “Sorry, I just, fuck I don’t know, I’m sorry, it’s not my place.” 

Louis just sips his tea and looks down into the mug, cheeks a little rosy, “It’d just be a bit much, you know? Too many things for a family in too few years innit? They just...don’t need to know yet.” 

Harry lets out a shaky breath, his lip trembling as he thinks of the implications behind those words. That there has been so much tragedy in that family’s life that they might just burst at the seams if there was another. Their grief spilling over, uncontained and painful. Harry thinks of all the time he spent grieving silently about Jay and Fizzy, how many hotel rooms he cried in and how many times he almost called Louis, dizzy with the hurt of it all, needing to know that he was okay. That he was at the very least surviving the pain, because sometimes not even Harry thought that he would. He already lost that family once, and losing some of them a second time was shattering. But in spite of his own pain, he always knew that it paled in comparison to what Louis was feeling, a poor imitation of grief. There was hurt between the two of them, but Harry remembers forgetting it entirely when he heard of their deaths, the physical and emotional distance between them feeling far wider and more expansive than it had before. All he wanted was to hold his boy, and to tell him he loved him, that it won’t hurt forever. 

Harry takes in a trembling breath, looking up at Louis, unsure how long he’d been in his own head. His throat feels tight and his voice comes out thickly, “I’m sorry Louis, I’m so sorry. For everything. For everything that’s happened, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there...I wanted to be there.” 

Louis just stares at him, his eyes turning a little red around the edges and he sniffs before saying, “I know you are, and it’s okay you know. It’s fine, it’s okay.” 

“Is it though?” Harry asks quickly, quickly wiping away a tear that was threatening to fall. 

“No, I suppose not,” Louis breaths out, “but it will be, time heals all wounds or something.” 

Harry hums gently, wanting to say more but not wanting salt, an already very open wound. They lock eyes briefly, and Harry lets himself notice for the first time in a long time that Louis looks so beautiful. So soft and so gentle, midday light fading through the window behind him he seems lit up from the inside, though his skin was pale it’s golden hue shone impossibly bright. Harry’s breath catches in his throat, and he feels inexplicably caught out, like Louis could somehow read his thoughts. 

“Well, if you ever need me, then I’m in London for the next little while,” Harry says. 

“That really means a lot, thank you,” Louis replies. And it feels a little like they’ve turned a corner, like maybe this is where they should have gotten to after their relationship ended, a friendship, or at least a shadow of one. 

“I’ve got a nurse coming instead of going to the hospital all the time,” Louis says, draining the last of his tea, “she’ll deliver the chemo and stuff and then bugger off. Don’t have to leave the comfort of me own home.” 

Harry’s stomach clenches at the mention of chemo, and he asks, “So, you’re starting treatment then?” 

“Yeah, yeah, doctor said we may as well start as quickly as possible. She comes in tomorrow,” Louis says, his voice clinical. 

“Do you know what, you know...like, what does the doctor think?” Harry asks in a strained voice, unsure how to actually ask, ‘ _does the doctor think you’re going to die or what? '_

“The prognosis?” Louis asks, a small smile on his face, and continues when Harry nods, “he actually says it’s pretty good, a few rounds of chemo and then maybe some radiation and I’ll be right hopefully. Not terminal or anything, no panicking allowed.” 

Harry cracks a smile for the first time this conversation, “Sure, no panicking. Absolutely. Can do.” Though panicking was something that Harry was categorically quite good at, especially when it came to Louis. 

Louis gently pushes himself up from the couch and collects Harry’s mug from the coffee table, and Harry gets up to follow him into the connecting kitchen, leaning against the wide door frame. 

“So, why’d you even text me in the first place?” Louis asks as he walks. 

Harry has to think for a moment about Louis is even asking, but then it clicks, “Oh! I was just out with some mates, and there was this guy that I overheard talking about you and how you were having a hard time, and then I just asked around and no-one really knew anything...so I thought I’d go to the source.” 

Louis’ eyebrow twitches up questioningly, “A guy? What guy?” 

“Alex, I think his name was. Never met the bloke if I’m honest, seemed a bit of a tosser, really,” Harry says, and startles when Louis drops the mugs in the sink just a little too loudly, his back looking stiff. But when he turns around his face his serene enough, and he merely hums back in response. 

“Thanks for coming again,” Louis says instead, “feel like it would've been a bit mortifying if the nurse turned up and I had a gangrene hip bone.” 

Harry barks out a laugh and starts to walk out of the kitchen, hovering between the living room and the foyer, “Definitely not that bad, but some antibiotics wouldn’t go amiss.” 

Louis reaches for a small paper bag on a side table and pulls out a small pill box and shakes it, “Got the drugs at the ready.” 

“Big night ahead, don’t go too hard,” Harry says, a smile dancing on his lips. 

“Yeah can’t wait, take these bad boys, have some pot noodles and fall asleep after three teas in front of the telly. _Wild_ stuff,” Louis says, voice dripping in sarcasm. 

Harry just shakes his head and laughs, sensing his time to leave, “Shall I leave you to it then?” 

Louis starts towards the front door as Harry grabs his coat off a hook, “Yeah get out of here, before it gets too crazy.” 

Harry cracks open the front door and his Vans feel suddenly very cold in the crisp air. As he walks towards his car, he turns back and says, “Remember, let me know if you need a hand with anything. No more fainting though.” 

Louis stands with his arms wrapped around him for warmth, “I’ll try my best.” 

Harry sticks up a hand in a small wave and climbs in his car, watching Louis get smaller in his rearview mirror as he notices he stays and watches the car disappear down the driveway. His toes are numb with the cold, and his chest starts to shake as he seems to let out his first breath since he arrived at Louis’. Again, he’s left with a feeling of the absurd, that he can’t really believe that this has happened at all. However, it all feels strangely familiar, a secret between them, just theirs. Didn’t end so well last time, but Harry supposes there are no matters of the heart involved this time. Though it’s messy and undefined, Harry feels nostalgic for something he thought was long gone, and he doesn’t all together hate it. 


	2. part 2

Louis texts Harry again the next evening, and Harry is strangely surprised to find himself not surprised at all at his name lighting up his phone screen. After so many years of it not being a possibility it’s only taken a mere few days to feel okay again. 

He’s been thinking of Louis all day, knowing that today was the first day of treatment for him, unsure of whether he should text first and ask how it’s going. He just wanted to make sure. 

He opens up the phone and sees a text,  _ just wanted to let you know that it’s all gone okay, dont even feel sick tbh. The nurse says you did a smashing job with the bandage, so well done you  _

Harry smiles down at the phone, and lets out a small breath of relief at knowing that he’s okay, Louis’ okay. 

_ I’m glad! What can i say, nurse in another life i reckon _ , Harry replies

_ Well if this singing thing doesn’t work out for you _ , Louis replies 

Harry sits down on the edge of his couch, he runs a hand over his face. He drafts a reply in his head, he sends it, they keep texting back and forth, Harry makes dinner, he watches a movie and falls asleep in his bed. His life keeps ticking on, task after task, day after day. The swoop of joy comes each time he sees Louis’ name light up his phone, the light permeating somewhere deep within him. He wonders if it’s just going to shine right out of his chest, down the street and light up the whole of London. He feels as if it could. 

  
  
  


**

Harry’s perception that it was all going to be smooth sailing is shattered only slightly when his phone lights up with a phone call from Louis on the evening of his second dose of chemo. 

“Louis?” Harry asks into the receiver. 

A few ragged breaths echo all tinny and distorted through the phone, “Harry...need your help, please,  _ please _ .” 

Harry immediately breaks out into a cold sweat, the pleading in Louis’ voice isn’t something he’s heard in a long time, it’s desperate and raw and it’s breaking Harry’s heart. 

“What do you need? Louis? What’s happening?” Harry quickly responds. 

“Can’t stop...throwing up,” Louis groans out, “can’t keep down the anti-emetics.” 

Harry is already walking around his house, gathering up his keys and pulling on a thick jumper as he responds, “I’m on my way, what can I bring?” 

“Nothing, I’ve got ev-” Louis stops halfway through his sentence and Harry hears a terrible gagging sound come through the phone and the phone itself clatter to the ground. 

“Louis?  _ Louis _ ?” Harry questions into the phone, increasingly louder. 

There’s a few moments and more gagging as Harry climbs into his car, and then he hears Louis’ voice, strained and croaky, “I’m here.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m on my way. Be there in 20 minutes, going to head to the chemist first,” Harry says, and he finds his voice trembling and his hands gripping the steering wheel too tight, “do you want to stay on the phone?” 

“No, no it’s fine, see you soon,” Louis says into the phone, and it sounds echoey and distant, before the line goes dead. 

Harry drives faster than he ever thinks he has in his entire life, only slowing when he feels his tires skid a little in the car park of the chemist. 

  
  


**

As he pulls up to Louis’ house, he finds that Louis has texted him two codes, and he quickly realises they’re to get in the gate and then to open a key box for the front door. Harry lets himself in, the house eerily quiet, the sound of the door clicking closed echoing off the walls. 

He drops his coat at the door, and starts up the stairs two at a time. He turns off to the master bedroom to walk through to the bathroom, where he assumes Louis is. His assumptions were proved correct when he was hit with the acrid stench of vomit, covering the last few metres in just a couple of steps he enters the bathroom. 

Harry finds Louis slumped against the wall next to the toilet, eyes closed and sweat painting his face. 

“Louis?” Harry says, his voice betraying him and how scared he is. 

Louis’ eyes flutter open and he takes in a rattling, wet breath as Harry crouches down next to him. Harry notices that there is vomit down the front of Louis’ shirt that’s also soaked with sweat. Louis flinches as Harry gently takes the bottom of the shirt and begins to lift it up over Louis’ head. He stretches it out so it doesn’t touch Louis’ face, and he dumps it in the bathtub, figuring he’ll deal with that later. 

Immediately Louis starts to shiver as the cool air hits his skin, pulling a shaking hand up to try and cover his chest. 

“Hey, hey you’re okay,” Harry says. 

Louis just lets out a tiny noise that sounds almost like a sob, weak and desperate. 

Harry scrambles to his feet and pulls down a towel from the rack, placing it around Louis’ shoulders, wrapping it around his front. Just as he does this, Louis’ arm bursts free and he lurches forwards towards the toilet as he starts gagging again, only a little liquid making it out of his shaking body. But the retching keeps coming, and all Harry can do is sit down next to Louis and place a hand on his back, rubbing slowly and fighting the urge to ask if he’s okay, because he’s obviously  _ not _ . 

Eventually, Louis just rests his head on the toilet bowl, spent and breathing heavily. He twists his head to look at Harry, his eyes glassy and out of focus. 

“It won’t stop,” Louis slurs out, “make it stop,  _ please _ .” 

Harry thinks that his heart might just shatter into a million pieces, and his own eyes fill with short-lived tears as he wills them away. His voice gives away for a few moments, and he just fumbles around for some toilet paper and wipes gently at Louis’ mouth, and helps Louis sit back against the bathroom wall. 

“I got something from the chemist, they said that it would be good if you can’t keep tablets down,” Harry says, the rustling paper of the chemist bag sounding too loud. He pulls out a packet of anti-nausea patches and alcohol wipes he got only a little while before, though it feels lightyears away. 

Louis barely even responds, his eyes fluttering between closed and open like his body can’t quite decide. Harry just ducks his head and gets to work. He wipes down a section of sweat-soaked upper arm to clean it and peels away the backing of the patch and tries to adhere it as best as possible. 

“Apparently you should feel better within the hour, and you can keep it on for a few days,” Harry says, absentmindedly patting down the edges of the patch. 

Louis nods slowly, lips chapped and cracked as he looks as though he’s about to speak but then just closes his mouth instead. 

Harry just takes in a deep breath and suddenly feels a surge of nervous energy run through him, and instead of letting Louis see it he stands up quickly, marching over to the window. He throws it open to try and let out the smell. He then flushes the toilet and washes his hands, looking up at himself in the mirror he sees wide eyes and he feels far older than the person staring back at him. 

“Will you be alright for a minute? Just going to find you a glass of water, and some clothes to change into,” Harry says, needing some air. Louis nods, small and strained, swallowing past a lump in his throat. 

Harry steps out into the master bedroom and tries to take it all in, there’s an IV pole to the side of Louis’ bed, cords wrapped up and machine off. His bedside table has about five pill bottles on it and a couple of old glasses of water, the sheets are stripped back but they look clean, there’s clothing strewn haphazardly around the room. So Harry grabs the glass off the table and ventures downstairs. He recalls where the kitchen is and puts the glass in the dishwasher, and searches through a few cupboards before finding a new one and filling it up with cool water. He then rummages around in the pantry and finds some plain biscuits, tucks them under his arm and bounds up the stairs again. 

He peeks into another room off the master, and finds Louis’ walk in. It’s messy, but surprisingly organised. Harry finds another pair of joggers, underwear and a soft old t-shirt, that Harry thinks he even remembers from touring days. Stepping into the bathroom again, Harry finds Louis in the same position he left him, but at least his eyes are open this time. 

“How’s it going?” Harry asks cautiously. 

“Haven’t vommed again,” Louis says, his voice hoarse, “might be placebo more than anything.” 

“I’ll take it,” Harry says with a small smile. He sits down on the edge of the bathtub, crackers and water in hand. 

They find themselves again in a small silence, so many years making them unsure how to fill it. Eventually Harry’s worries get the best of him. 

“Didn’t you say you had a nurse here?” he asks. 

Louis nods, “She went home a few hours ago, I was doing alright for ages and then all of a sudden I wasn’t. Just got a bit panicked when I didn’t stop for like, two hours straight.” 

“Understandable, I- I’m just glad you called,” Harry says. 

“Me too,” Louis says softly, and their eyes meet and it strangely feels an awful lot more gentle than the moment really is. 

Harry breaks eye contact as he notices Louis shivering beneath the blanket, “I think we need to try and get some water in you and a few biscuits, and then take a shower.” 

“You saying I smell?” Louis asks with a wry smile. 

Harry huffs out a small laugh, “It smells like the worst fucking hangover of my life in here.” 

“Rude. So rude,” Louis laughs back. 

Harry shuffles down to the floor and hands Louis the glass of water and watches him take a few small sips, “Don’t drink too fast.” 

“I  _ know _ , Harold,” Louis says into the glass with a roll of his eyes. But before Harry has time to reflect on the fact that Louis has called him Harold for the first time in years, Louis gags a little but then just tips his head back against the wall and groans. 

“It’s okay, take your time,” Harry says kindly, reaching out a hand and only stopping centimetres from Louis’ knee. He hovers there for a few moments before perhaps deciding against the best course of action and places his hand there anyway, rubbing his thumb back and forth. 

They sit like that for a while, and Louis takes a few more sips, and then a few more until the glass is empty. Harry fills it up again from the sink and leaves it on the counter, he’ll get Louis to drink it later. 

“I think a shower is on the cards before food,” Louis says quietly, trying to push himself up from the floor. His arms are shaking and his legs don’t seem to be working like legs are supposed to. Without asking, Harry steps over and puts a hand under Louis arm to lift him up. Louis sways a little before grabbing onto the front of Harry’s shirt to steady himself, his breathing heavy and laboured. 

“Sorry, sorry I just-,” Louis starts, his hands shaking against Harry, “ _ god _ , I feel so fucking shit.” 

“I know,” Harry says, leading them over to the edge of the bathtub, “it’ll be okay, let’s just sit down here and get sorted.” 

Louis’ head hangs low, avoiding eye contact with Harry and after a few moments says, “No, I really am sorry, this really isn’t fair on you. On anyone.” 

Harry understands the implication, that they’ve skipped about a million steps here and it feels so terribly wrong. Just a couple of weeks ago they weren’t speaking, and now Harry is wiping vomit from Louis’ mouth and planning to put on a load of laundry for him. There’s supposed to be things that happened before this, they were supposed to see each other at a reunion, start becoming friendly again, repair old wounds, say they’re fucking  _ sorry  _ to each other. Or better yet, none of this was supposed to happen at all. They had made a silent promise filled within burning rage that none of that was ever going to occur, and all of that seemed to disappear in an instant. Their carefully crafted world of separation shattered with just a few texts. Who knew it was so fragile? 

He almost doesn’t even respond, but with a moment of clarity and his hands on the towel around Louis’ shoulders, keeping him steady, Harry says, “You know, I think we really just have to accept that both of us have made choices to be right here, right now.” 

Louis tips his head up to look at him, his eyebrows knitted together, perhaps a little shocked at the stark admission. Harry just continues, “If I didn’t want to be here I wouldn’t have texted you in the first place, and I wouldn’t have answered the call today. And if you didn’t want  _ me  _ here, then you wouldn’t have called. Yeah, it feels weird, but it’s not like we don’t have a choice. Right?” Harry almost asks the last question with a little desperation, because he knows it’s all true for himself, and he wants it to be true for Louis but he’s scared he doesn’t really know the boy in front of him anymore. A gnawing thought in the back of his mind also asks him,  _ have you really ever had a choice when it’s come to Louis? _

Louis swallows deeply, and there’s no smile on his lips but for the first time that day his eyes look a little brighter, “I suppose you’re right. Old age has made you wise.” 

“Fuck off,” Harry says, a genuine smiling painting his face, “let’s just get you in the shower.” 

Harry takes the towel from around Louis’ shoulders and helps him take off his joggers. He tries to ignore the new tattoos he sees on his upper thigh, and he notices a small pink scar on Louis’ knee, he wonders what happened. He hovers awkwardly for a few moments, unsure of where to go from here. 

“Do you want me to, you know?” Harry asks, vague as ever. 

“Help me shower?” Louis asks, “you know what, think I might be okay.” 

“Okay, yeah sure, just checking,” Harry says in a rush, flushing a little. 

“Just help me get up and I’ll be okay once I’m in there,” Louis says softly. 

Harry nods as he reaches in the shower and turns on the water, steam rising quickly. He lends Louis a hand and he pushes himself up, looking more stable than he did even a few minutes ago and he shuffles them over to the shower. He leaves Louis with a hand on the wall, looking even smaller than usual in his underwear, shivering and cold, skin pale and clammy. 

“You sure you’re going to be okay?” Harry asks. 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine, give you a shout if I’m not,” Louis says. 

“I’ll be right outside,” Harry says, grabbing Louis dirty clothes and towel from the bathtub and stepping back towards the door. 

He stays true to his word for the first few minutes of Louis’ shower, hearing the beating of the water change as a body steps underneath it. He listens intently for any sign of distress, but none come. So he figures it’s safe to venture downstairs and put on that load of laundry after picking up a couple more bits of clothing from Louis’ bedroom. He races back upstairs to make sure Louis is okay, and then perches himself on the side of the bed, unsure what to do with himself. 

The water eventually stops and just a few minutes after, Louis emerges from the bathroom in the change of clothes, hair still dripping and skin pink from the heat. 

“Feeling better?” Harry asks. 

“Loads,” Louis replies, walking over to the bed to sit down not too far from Harry. 

“Can I get you a tea or anything?”

“Just going to stick with water. Never thought I’d say that,” Louis says as he reaches over for one of the pill bottles on his bedside table. 

“Why do you reckon it was so bad?” Harry asks softly. 

“The chemo?” Harry nods. “I don’t know, I think the IV anti-emetic isn’t working as well as it did last time. But this patch is holding its own.” 

“I’m glad, you should tell your nurse though. That it was this bad,” Harry urges gently. 

“Mm, I will, if it’s like this every single time I’m gunna fucking lose it,” Louis says, more to himself than anything. He shuffles himself up the bed so he’s sitting upright against the pillows, grimacing against his own weight. 

“I got you a vomit bucket,” Harry says, grabbing the bucket he found in the laundry and placing it next to Louis’ side of the bed, “just in case of an emergency.” 

Louis smiles, “I shouldn’t be so pleased that someone has gotten me a bucket to throw up in, but you know what? I kind of am. Is that telling?” 

“Maybe a little,” Harry laughs out, “did you eat any of the crackers?” 

“Not yet, but I will. Promise, Mum,” Louis winks at him. Harry gets up and grabs them from the bathroom counter and tosses them to Louis on the bed, where he starts nibbling at the corner of one. 

The bright digital clock on Louis’ bedside table clicks over to 11pm and almost as if on cue Louis lets out a huge yawn and starts to shuffle down the bed head until he’s almost in a position to sleep. 

Harry’s unsure of how to ask, so he settles on just telling Louis, “I know you’ll want to say no, but I’m just going to stay the night down on the couch and if you need me at all then I’m here.” 

“No, Harry, you don’t have to-” Louis starts. 

“I know I don’t, but that’s what’s happening. End of,” Harry says, a little sternly. Mostly because he just wouldn’t forgive himself if anything went wrong during the night. 

Louis nods his head with a small smile and goes to switch on the TV on the opposite wall of the room, “Fine, but don’t expect a full English in the morning. This ain’t a fucking bed and breakfast.” 

“Goodnight to you too, Louis,” Harry says with a grin, as he closes the door behind him. 

Harry climbs down the stairs again, and falls onto the couch, suddenly exhausted mentally and physically. He pulls down a throw blanket that’s hanging over the back of the couch and barely remembers even falling asleep. 

  
  


**

Harry wakes to the smell of toast, and sunlight streaming in from the large bay window behind him. He reaches for his phone on the coffee table and sees its half nine, much later than he usually sleeps, but he supposes he needed it. There’s the clanging of dishes coming from the kitchen and Harry hauls himself up and ventures in. 

Louis turns around, mug in hand and sees Harry in the doorway, “Morning,” he says, much more bright than the night before. 

“Morning,” Harry replies, rubbing sleep from his eye, “how’re we feeling?” 

“We are feeling significantly better, if a little tired,” Louis says, placing the mug down on the counter and trying to fit it under a coffee machine. 

Harry steps into the kitchen and comes closer to Louis, “I’m glad. Is that coffee for me?” 

“Presumptuous, but yes it is,” Louis says, “this machine’s a fucking nightmare though, never use it.” 

“I’ve the same one at home, shove over,” Harry says, taking the mug from Louis’ hands. 

Louis moves back over to the toaster and grabs the slices from it, and starts buttering them, “What do you want on your toast?” 

“Oh, no I’m right thanks, just coffee first up,” Harry says, his stomach rolling at the thought of food so soon after waking. 

“Suit yourself,” Louis shrugs. He finishes loading his toast with butter, and takes a few tablets from bottles off a shelf above the stove and pours them on his plate. Then Louis saunters out of the kitchen in the lounge, and Harry follows a few moments later with his coffee in hand. 

Louis is sat on the couch Harry was just sleeping on, “Thank god you woke up, your legs were where my arse usually is.” 

“Disaster averted,” Harry says, and takes a glorious sip of his coffee, eyes slipping closed momentarily. 

“I called the nurse about yesterday’s small crisis, and she says that I should have rang her instead,” Louis says suddenly through a grimace, “got a right telling off from her.” 

“To be fair, you definitely should’ve,” Harry says laughing. 

“Never said she was wrong,” Louis says in return, munching on a piece of toast, “but like I said, I am feeling much better and didn’t even vom once during the night, so I’m overall counting it as a win.” 

“I think that’s fair,” Harry says, “when’s your next treatment day?” 

“Two weeks; so each cycle is two doses over 4 weeks, and my doctor reckons they’ll have to do about 3 cycles minimum. Then they’ll do some tests and see if I need anymore,” Louis rattles off. 

“That’s good, that sounds good,” Harry says, unsure that it is good, but it feels short-term, a blip almost. 

Louis almost seems to have read his mind, “It is, I think. Way less than normal because it’s so early stages, hopefully I’ll be completely done by end of March, can get away without missing much of anything.” 

Harry hums, mind bouncing to how their industry handles ‘taking a break’ (hint, not that well) and hopes that Louis’ current management is more lenient than their old one was. Though March wasn’t that far away at all, in the grand scheme of life. It’s making him a little nervous that he’s already trying to think of excuses to make to his own management to stay in London past the beginning of February, though he’s not sure how successful he’ll be. And he’s sure that soon enough he won’t be the only one that knows and that this month long sojourn back into each other’s lives will come to an end. Harry tries to ignore how that thought makes his chest ache just a little. 

The rest of the day just seems to pass without much thought, they start watching Bake Off together and find out they’re cheering on the same bakers this season. Harry makes them some pasta for lunch, and tries not to be nervous when Louis doesn’t eat much of it and starts to look a little green around the edges. Louis naps in the afternoon, head resting on the arm of the couch and Harry won’t admit how long he watches him, chest rising and falling steadily, looking so peaceful as the air around them is still. It all feels very familiar, being in each other’s space again, and it makes Harry feel warm and safe, feelings that he hadn’t even missed in a long time. 

When Louis is asleep against the couch, Harry starts to clean up their dishes from lunch and he grabs them off the coffee table. As he does so, Louis’ phone starts to buzz and it lights up. He sees the background first, and it makes his heart clench, it’s a photo of him, his Mum, Lottie and Fizzy. It’s obviously old, and they all look younger, but they look so  _ happy _ . The next thing he sees is a few notifications, but most noticeably 5 new texts from someone named ‘Alex’. Harry’s mind takes a few moments to place the name, at first not thinking much of it, but then it clicks. 

Alex the tosser, from the bar. Alex who knew about Louis and that he was going through a rough time. Harry’s brow furrows and he wonders what the story is there, thinking he might ask once Louis is up. Or perhaps, that’s actually not his business and maybe it’s better left alone. In his thoughts, he clatters a couple of the plates together and Louis startles awake with a small yelp. 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Harry whispers, like being quiet now was going to make a difference. 

“Fuck you,” Louis groans sleepily, pushing himself up into a sitting position on the couch, his hair ruffled up on one side. 

Reflexively, Harry reaches out and pats it down. Halfway through the action he realises what he’s doing, and stops mid-pat, taking his hand away with a furious blush. Louis’ eyes are still a little blurry from sleep, but he’s looking up at Harry with a slightly open mouth, and Harry’s hand feels hot from the touch. 

“Sorry,” Harry says again, finally looking away, “was just trying to clean up a little.” 

Louis runs his own hands through his hair, fingers brushing through where Harry’s just were, “Too helpful for your own good.” 

“Something like that,” Harry says as he walks into the kitchen and places the dishes in the sink, drawing in a deep breath, trying to ignore the swoop in his stomach that seems never ending. 

Trying to change the subject a little, as Harry walks back in he mentions Louis’ phone, “Also, didn’t mean to look but when I was cleaning up your phone lit up with a bunch of texts from an ‘Alex’? Is that the guy that I met?”

Louis turned his head sharply to look between Harry and the phone, “Alex?” He picks up the phone quickly and reads the texts. 

“Did you see what he said?” Louis asked, a little desperation behind what seemed to be a casual tone. 

Harry frowned a little, “No, not into prying in other’s phones.” 

“No, course not, sorry,” Louis mutters, chewing at his bottom lip, “and yeah, it is the guy you met.” 

Harry’s mind is trying to make the connection, trying to understand why Louis is acting so strangely right now and why Alex would know about Louis at all. 

“Have you told him as well?” Harry asks, almost a little warily, unsure where this was all going. 

“Uh, kind of, not the whole thing,” Louis says slowly, he continues, “he was here when my doctor rang me saying something might be wrong. Was a bit hard to hide my reaction.” 

“Right, makes sense,” Harry says, though it really doesn’t, “so why don’t you tell him everything? He’s obviously concerned.” 

Louis laughs a little darkly at that, and says, “We aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment.” 

“Alex doesn’t seem to think so, according to all those texts,” Harry says, trying to process what might actually be going on here. 

“That’s because Alex can’t take a fucking hint, the stupid prick,” Louis grumbles out under his breath, he sounds angry. 

“Ouch,” Harry says, trying to lighten the situation again, this whole thing making him nervous, he finishes jokingly, “no love lost, then.” 

“ _ Definitely _ not a love situation,” Louis responds quickly and sharply. 

Harry’s stomach feels like it’s been punched as the ball finally drops. This is someone who Louis was seeing. Maybe even dating. 

“ _ Oh _ ,” Harry can only say, “he’s your...your like?” He can’t even finish the sentence. 

Louis looks like he’s floundering for just a moment, then he puts his lips together in a line and sighs through his nose tightly, “Not anymore, but yeah, for a little while.” 

“Well good, that’s good, I mean...sorry it hasn’t worked out,” Harry stumbles out, really unsure of what to say. He knows they’ve obviously both seen other people in the 5 years they’ve been apart, but  _ fuck  _ is it different hearing about it from Louis himself. 

Louis doesn’t say anything, he’s just staring at Louis with an unreadable expression on his face, and Harry stares back until he can’t stand it anymore. 

“Anyway, I’ve been in your hair long enough, I should head home,” Harry says, voice surprisingly shaky. He goes to move towards the hallway, hearing Louis get up off the couch behind him. 

“Harry, wait, you don’t have to go,” Louis calls after him, letting a little desperation into his voice. 

“I think that would be better,” Harry says, feeling hurt and bitter for absolutely no good reason. He has no right to be feeling like this. 

“Let’s just  _ talk _ , Harry,” Louis starts, voice softer, more mature than Harry’s heard it before. 

But Harry doesn’t feel particularly mature right now, he turns on his heel to look at Louis, “What’s there to talk about, hm?” 

Louis recoils just a little, and Harry feels a pang of guilt run through him, this isn’t the time, he shouldn’t be angry. 

“Well, you’re obviously upset about something,” Louis says. 

“How should you know? We barely know each other anymore. Clearly,” Harry says sharply, and though he’s feeling guilty about it he can’t stop this anger in his belly, licking at a fire of something he put to sleep a long time ago. 

“What’s  _ that  _ supposed to mean?” Louis says, the softness of his voice disappearing for a moment. 

Harry falters before saying, “I’m just saying, we don’t even know each other anymore. You’re obviously seeing someone, and my being here feels wrong when you’ve got a boyfriend. You should just call Alex,” he finishes, almost sneering on the name. 

“I told you, he’s  _ not  _ my boyfriend. Not that it should matter, it’s none of your fucking business,” Louis says, his cheeks flushing red. 

Harry feels the anger bubbling up inside of him, like it never left, “You certainly made sure of that.” 

“What’s that even supposed to  _ mean _ , Harry? Just say what you actually fucking want to say,” Louis shouts. Harry finds himself sick with a twinge of satisfaction that Louis is angry too, it’s too much to be alone in it. 

“It means that it was never my decision for us to never fucking talk again, to act like we never even knew each other,” Harry says. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Harry, we are not about to have the same fight we had a million times half a decade ago,” Louis says, burying his eyes in the palms of his hands. 

“Why not? It’s not like you ever wanted to have it then? It’s not like we ever got to finish it,” Harry shoots back. 

Louis just stares at him, eyes red-rimmed and tired, “It’s because it was never, _ever_ going to make a difference. The outcome was always going to be the same. Why yell at each other about it?” he says finally, sounding so terribly sad. 

Harry feels his throat tighten, and his eyes fill with tears that he can’t tell if they are angry or sad or somewhere in between, “Because then it would’ve seemed like you tried.” Harry suddenly felt like he was back in 2015, hoping desperately for Louis to tell him something different, his eyes stinging from crying so much, feeling like Louis was slipping away from him and he couldn’t do anything about it. 

Louis’ eyes were now shimmering in the late afternoon glow coming through the foyer windows, but his voice was shaking low and furious as he almost whispers out, “You don’t think I tried, Harry? You don’t think I did everything I could to make it work?” 

Harry tries to respond, but the raw anger of Louis’ voice almost scares him, eventually he says trying to match Louis’ anger, “Hating each other and never talking again doesn’t seem like the best solution to me. I never wanted to hate you, but I hated what you did.” 

“You think that the alternative would have been easier? Watching each other date other people, having to act as if nothing was wrong?” Louis says, exasperated. 

“Is that not what we did, though?” Harry asks explosively. 

Louis opens his mouth to say something, but then shuts it, swallowing tightly. 

“Isn’t it?” Harry questions again, “didn’t we just do all of that but from a distance? Because I don’t know about you, but I would have preferred to at least not become strangers.” 

Louis runs a hand down his face, and Harry notices that maybe he even wipes a tear away, it’s almost a full minute before he responds, “I couldn’t have done it. It would have killed me.” 

Harry feels the air leave his chest, and there’s a small voice in the back of his head telling him that it would have killed him too. Watching it all up close, knowing everything about Louis but not being really allowed in, would have been too much to handle. 

“We would have found a way,” Harry says, his voice desperate and croaky. 

Louis shakes his head and huffs out a laugh, “You know that’s not true, if we weren’t allowed to come out and be together, we weren’t allowed to be friends. It would have all still been in secret, but we’d just not be in love anymore. That’s fucked up, Harry, that would be so fucked.” 

Harry thinks back to that time, the hiding and the secret of it all becoming too much for them, taking such a toll on their love. All they wanted was to be desperately free, the weight of the band and the tours and the albums and the fans and each other, weighing so heavily upon them. It was all becoming too much and they were almost at their wit’s end. In the end, it wasn’t even about the two of them, it was just a tipping point. Harry doesn’t even remember their last conversation, he just remembers the grief he felt leaving their old house after it, having to pull over on the side of the road because he couldn’t see the road through his tears. 

“I just couldn’t bear the thought of life without you,” Harry says as a tear falls down his face, and it’s true and painful, and he feels so exposed, more so than he has in years. 

“And I couldn’t bear having you in my life, but not really having you,” Louis says thickly. 

Harry hangs his head and tries to stop the tears, pinching the bridge of his nose in desperation. His chest was aching, and it feels like something’s opened but he’s not sure what. He looks up after a few moments and sees Louis grimacing, trying to hold back his tears as well. Without much more thought, he strides the distance between them and engulfs Louis in a hug. Harry takes a deep breath and feels Louis do the same, his fingers squeezing desperately at Louis’ rib cage; he feels like he can’t hold him tight enough. Louis’ heartbeat thrums steadily against his own, and he’s not sure how long they stand there holding each other, but it all together feels like too long and never long enough. 

Eventually, Louis pulls back a little, his breath dancing on Harry’ collar. 

“I needed that, I think,” he says, wiping at his face and taking a couple of cautionary steps back. 

“I think we both did,” Harry says, doing the same. 

They’re left staring at each other in that foyer, feeling like it all shifted. 

“I have a lot more to say on the subject, but only my psychologist has heard that,” Louis says, laughing but Harry can tell he’s probably not joking. 

Harry lets out a small laugh and goes to grab his coat again. 

“I really should go,” he says, “but not in a passive aggressive way, but in the way that I think we should think about this on our own for a minute. Like, I think  _ I  _ need to.” 

Louis nods, “Probably a good idea, reflection is important after a good yell.” 

“That’s what I always say,” Harry says with a small smile. He leaves after saying his goodbyes and making Louis promise to call him if he needs anything. Sitting in his car moments later, he’s cold and it feels too quiet, and for the first time in a long time he realises that he really wants to be around Louis again. That he misses him. He pulls out his phone and contemplates sending Louis a text, and eventually just sends it. 

_ Theres a new bake off episode on tonight  _

Immediately the three grey dots appear under the text and Louis replies,  _ interesting observation _

_ Dont think i could stand watching doris get voted off on my own _ , Harry replies 

It takes a few moments for Louis to respond, but when he does Harry grins widely,  _ well then you better bring some proper food over to make dinner, because im certainly not in the mood to cook after that screaming match  _

_ Deal _ , Harry replies. Only then does he leave Louis’ driveway, already planning on what he was going to get at the shops for dinner. His heart feeling inexplicably lighter, like something just got put right in his world. 

  
  


***

Without even discussing it, they settle into a routine over the next few weeks. Harry checks in with Louis every few days, sometimes they watch Bake Off together, Harry tries not to make his social calendar too busy. 

Like clockwork Louis texts Harry when his nurse goes home on chemo days, and Harry watches Louis succumb to sickness and fatigue. In a scarily short amount of time Louis becomes thinner, losing small clumps of hair by the third treatment, not bald but Harry finds hair all over the house. He watches as Louis falls asleep halfway through a sentence, tired beyond comprehension and aching. He tries to force him to eat, in the end just getting Louis to get down half a sustenance drink is enough. Harry watches with reproachful eyes as Louis’ hands begin to shake when he makes his tea, needing to take a break partway through, shutting his eyes, body swaying gently against the weight of standing up. Harry only lets himself cry when he’s in his own home or Louis is fast asleep upstairs, Louis doesn’t need to see that. 

With only some small lies of omission, Harry manages to secure a stay in London until the end of February, citing some family emergency and calling in some favours with some people from the label. With the solemn promise that he would be prepared with some stuff to record and some lyrics to workshop by the time he flew to LA in early March. 

He’s also aware of the fact that Louis should be telling his family, or really anyone soon enough. Harry’s sure he will. Though his doctor is saying the treatment is going well, he can’t imagine that this will last until the end of March. His heart keens for it to last forever, but he knows that’s selfish, that Louis needs the support more and he’s certain he can no longer give it to him like he used to. That seems too far out of reach. Yes, they’ve now reached a comfortableness and Harry even thinks a sort of friendship. But he’s sure it’s borne out of some level of convenience, Louis needs him around, and they’ve missed each other. Simple as that. Can’t last forever. 

**

It’s a couple of days after Louis’ chemo day, closing in on mid February and desperately cold. Harry has left Louis on the couch downstairs, sleeping soundly. He ventures upstairs, wondering whether he should put on a load of laundry, and he wanders aimlessly around Louis’ room, always feeling a little like he’s intruding when Louis’ not in there with him. 

So he leaves the room and starts down the hallway, to his left, right before the stairs he sees a door cracked open that he hasn’t seen open before. He only pauses for a moment before pushing it open just a little more and ducking his head inside to look. When his eyes adjust to the slight dark of the room, with its shutters pulled low, he takes in a sharp breath, like all the oxygen has suddenly escaped the air. He sees their piano. The piano from their first house they bought together. He remembers buying it, feeling guilty for spending the absurd amount of money, fingering the keys when it was delivered to their house, grinning stupidly hearing Louis play it, writing songs until the early hours of the morning. Together, like they always were. 

He wipes away a few tears that surprise him as they fall down his face, and he finds himself walking into the room, turning on a lamp sitting on a large dark wooden desk in the corner. It fills the room with a soft glow, muted and golden. Harry runs his fingers over the keys once again, they feel cold and smooth, like rocks upon a beach, battered by a tired sea. He presses down so reservedly on the middle C that it does not even make a sound, merely a dull thump somewhere deep against the strings. He tries again, and the note rings sharp and true, too loud against the silence of the rest of the house. 

He pulls out the bench and sits down, gently laying his hands across the keys, it feels smaller though he knows it shouldn’t. His fingers start beating out an unfamiliar melody, the notes are often wrong, and it doesn’t sound like much of anything but he hums along to it regardless. There are pulls of lyrics, but he wavers somewhere in a reverie, not even letting his mind wander there, just enjoying the movement of his fingers and the gentle feel of the keys beneath him. There’s a lump in his throat that feels ever present, stuck there for weeks, maybe even years, and it feels all of a sudden at risk of spilling over. He shuts his eyes and tries to will it all away, maybe if he shuts them for long enough then all the questions and all the doubts and all the uncertainty will fall into place. 

There’s a small clearing of a throat from behind him, and Harry’s eyes snap open with a small gasp, he quickly wipes away the wetness on his cheeks before turning on the bench to see Louis in the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, small and too skinny, his eyes still half asleep, staring deep into Harry’s. 

“Sorry,” Harry starts, voice thick, “didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Louis just shakes his head gently, lifting a jumper-clad hand to rest his chin on his palm, “You didn’t.” 

Harry glances around the room, and contemplates apologising for entering the room but instead what comes out is, “I can’t believe you kept this piano.” 

Louis' mouth twists in a way that Harry can’t exactly read, but his voice comes out a little strangled as he walks towards the piano, “I don’t think I could ever let it go.” 

Louis’ hand trails along the end of the piano, pressing down on some of the high keys in a small scale. Harry shifts himself over naturally, leaving some of the seat for Louis to sink into, his eyes flutter shut momentarily, his mind flashing between now and years before. 

Neither of them play anything for a moment, just stare at their hands against the keys, something buzzing in the air. Then Louis starts to play the melody Harry was trying to work out just moments before, slow and unsure, a few notes wrong here and there. A couple of phrases in Louis gets stuck on a note, and without even thinking Harry reaches across and gently grabs Louis’ hand, placing his finger on the correct note. Their skin burns together, Harry hears Louis breath in deep and low, and sees out of the corner of his eye Louis glance towards him. Harry lets himself look as well, and their eyes catch as Louis presses down on the key, note ringing out between them. 

Louis’ staring at Harry so intently, like he’s looking straight into the caverns of his chest, seeing him cut open and exposed right there against the piano. He’s so impossibly gentle when he reaches up and wipes away a tear that Harry didn’t even realise was falling, letting out the smallest, “Darling, what’s wrong?” 

And that just about breaks Harry as he lets out a choked sob that’s been stuck in his throat, ducking his head. He doesn’t even know how to answer that question, what even is wrong? He’s not sure he can even articulate it. It’s all wrong and it’s all right in the same breath, he’s here and Louis’ in front of him, but it’s not the same and Louis is so  _ sick _ . And it’s all going to go away again. There’s not a reality where they stay in this house, just the two of them, and Louis calls him darling forever, and he feels like a fool for thinking it, but it all just feels so desperately unfair. 

All these thoughts pass through Harry’s mind in an instant, and Louis’ hand is still cupping his cheek, warm and protective. Harry sucks in a breath, shaking and long, trying to regain some control. 

“Don’t know what’s wrong, I just…,” Harry starts, “I’m just scared I think.” 

“Of what?” Louis asks, his hand dropping from Harry’s face, it feels cold again. 

“Of everything,” Harry answers, because it’s true, “of this, of not this.”  _ Of losing you again. _

“‘M scared too,” Louis mumbles, pressing in a couple of keys, sharps. 

“Of what?” Harry asks, mirroring Louis’ own question. 

“Everything, too,” Louis says with a small laugh, “stuck between wanting this all to end, and wanting it to stay as it is.” 

Harry contemplates that for a moment before asking, “Wanting what to stay as it is?” 

Louis draws in a shaky breath before letting his little finger bump against Harry’s as he looks for lower notes, “Me being sick, I suppose.” 

“You want to be sick?” Harry asks, confused but on the borderline of understanding where this is all going. 

Louis lets his finger stay against Harry’s as he says, “I want  _ this _ . Not the cancer, obviously.” 

Harry pulls in his own breath, chest quivering, and he turns his head to look at Louis who does the same. It’s hard to say who closes the distance between them, but it’s so small so maybe it doesn’t matter. Harry almost starts to cry again as he feels Louis’ lips against his for the first time in years, it feels so much like home and warmth and a gentle embrace. He reaches up to cup the back of Louis’ head, leaning in deep and Louis moans softly into his mouth. Harry feels Louis’ hands grasping at the front of his jumper, trying to pull him impossibly closer. The few moments they are locked together, the room itself seems to melt away, they could have been anywhere. 

Eventually, they part, their heads resting against each other, breath mixing together. 

“Forgot how nice that is,” Louis says, and Harry can hear his smile. 

Harry just hums his agreeance and leans his head back. 

Louis drops his head, his already chapped lips red, “Though perhaps it wasn’t our best idea.” 

There’s a sharp drop in Harry’s stomach, “Why?” He asks. 

Louis looks back up at Harry, eyes shining even in the soft light, “When do you have to go?” 

Harry’s heart clenches and he wonders how he could go from feeling so elated just moments before to this, “Couple of weeks,” he says, wishing he didn't have to.

Louis nods, his mouth in a line, “It’s okay, was never going to last forever.” 

“I want it to,” Harry says instantly, childishly. 

Looking up at Harry’s face, Louis’ face falls slightly, “Would be lying if I said any different. But we can’t Harry, you know we can’t.” 

Harry feels the whispers of conversations passed, of Louis telling him similar things years ago, of him feeling so hopeless and angry at the world. He wants to scream and yell and tell everyone to go fuck themselves, he wants to pack it all in and get on a plane and run away. 

Instead he says, “I know,  _ god _ , I know.” 

“It’s not fair, darling, it was never fair,” Louis says gently, wiping a hand down the front of his face. 

“It isn’t,” Harry says, pulling Louis in against his chest, and kissing the side of his head. Not caring if it isn’t the right thing to do. He’s missed this so terribly, his body acting of its own volition. Louis’ hands curl around his sides, lithe fingers rubbing at his back, and Harry feels a small sob move through Louis’ chest and he pulls him tighter. 

They stay like that for a long while, mellowing in the realisation that they may just be breaking each other’s hearts again, though it may be more like they are breaking their own. Eventually, Louis lets Harry go. 

“What do you want for dinner?” he asks simply. 

Harry barks out a quiet laugh, “That’s it?”

“Well, it’s almost 8 and this is the first time I’ve felt hungry in a few days,” Louis says, avoiding the question all together. Almost like he’s saying, let’s just continue on, let’s make it feel normal again if only for a moment in time. 

“Breakfast for dinner?” Harry asks. 

“Read my mind,” Louis answers, not quite smiling but there’s happiness there. He goes to stand up and falters for a moment, Harry having to catch him just slightly as he stands. 

“You okay?” Harry asks, standing up himself, still holding Louis’ waist. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine, just a little dizzy. Hungry, probably,” Louis says, shaking his head. 

Harry just nods and lets Louis go as they make their way downstairs, but he watches him carefully as they descend the stairs.

Neither of them say a thing as they sit down on the couch after dinner and put a movie on, and instead of sitting at opposite ends like usual, they meet somewhere in the middle. Louis’ head finding its way onto Harry’s chest. Neither of them say anything either when Louis pulls Harry’s hand at the top of the staircase when they get ready for bed and leads him into his bedroom. 

Harry stares at Louis with apprehensive eyes, not knowing where exactly this is going. Louis sits down on the edge of the bed, sighing as he sinks into it, he looks so undoubtedly tired. He goes to take off his jumper but his arms begin to shake, and Harry closes the space between them and helps him lift it above his head. He looks down to see Louis’ small frame, ribs protruding and a central line under a plastic bandage on his chest. Harry leans down and helps Louis take off his joggers, leaving him in just his boxers. 

“Stay, please,” Louis says, so quietly that Harry almost doesn’t hear him. 

Harry nods, “Of course.” He feels a surge in his chest, so sudden and overwhelming. He leans down and captures Louis’ lips again. Deep and slow, and forgetting that this isn’t supposed to happen. That once was a mistake, but more than that was dangerous. Forgetting that he can already feel his heart breaking. 

Louis breaks himself away after a few moments, breath ragged and eyes wide, “Harry, I can’t, I can’t you know…,” he glances back towards the bed, a free hand touches his central line, and his eyes flick back to Harry’s. 

Harry understands then, and he’s almost glad of it. It’s not about that, he just wants Louis, in whatever way his body can let him at the moment. He walks instead around to the other side of the bed and climbs in, helping Louis shuffle downwards and they are facing each other, beneath the blanket of darkness and silence. 

They fall asleep and Harry’s sleep is deep but broken. He awakes in the early hours of the morning, his back plastered against Louis’ front, taking a few moments to remember where he is. He falls back asleep only moments later, feeling his mind take his thoughts somewhere else, somewhere where only this feeling was the reality. 

  
  


***

It feels so good to exist in each other’s space again, properly, not stepping on eggshells and avoiding touches. They touch now, soft, but without reservation. Harry isn’t hesitant to hold Louis as he sleeps, to rub his back as he throws up, to kiss him sometimes like he used to; even though he knows he shouldn’t. But they both keep doing it regardless, self-restraint was never either one of their strong suits. 

The only time Harry even leaves Louis’ house over the next couple of weeks is to go back to his own place and grab some new clothes, when Louis forces him out to go to dinner with some mates, or when Louis has his nurse come over to deliver the chemo. Even though they’ve both become pretty good at avoiding paps over the last couple of months, and no one has connected them yet, being in Louis’ house with other people there was probably pushing it. 

Harry is waiting for Louis to text him to say that the nurse has left, it’s what they do. But it’s been hours and it’s getting dark, way past when he would usually have made his way back to the house. He tries his best not to panic, but Louis isn’t responding to any texts or calls. After another half an hour Harry just decides that he’ll drive back to the house, Louis’ probably just asleep, he’s fine, of course he’s fine. 

As he pulls up outside Louis’ house, he immediately realises it’s not fine. He can see the light of the ambulance shining off the front windows, the sirens turned off. With barely a thought to the fact that he shouldn’t be here when other people are, he stops the car in a no parking zone and runs towards the front door that’s still open. He looks around wildly, his heart pounding so hard in his ears that he can barely hear anything, just his own ragged breath, trying to say something, anything. 

He takes the stairs two at a time and he starts to hear the low hum of voices from Louis’ room. There’s a paramedic blocking half the doorway and Harry looks past him, and he lets out a choked sob that’s been threatening to surface since he first saw the ambulance. Louis is lying in bed, eyes closed and body limp, oxygen mask on and people hovering around him. 

At that moment, the paramedic realises that Harry’s behind him and starts to usher him out of the doorway and says, “Hey, who are you?”

Harry almost pushes back against him, but can hardly seem to talk, eventually he struggles out, “I’m Louis’, I’m his...friend, I’m his friend. What’s happening? Is he okay?” 

The paramedic looks at him warily, with a look in his eye that says that he probably recognises him but maybe isn’t sure. 

“We’re taking care of him, does he have family we can call?” the paramedic asks. 

Harry shakes his head, trying to stop crying but he can’t see Louis anymore, and that’s not an  _ answer _ , “No, no they don’t know he’s sick. I’ve been looking after him.” 

“You’re not family?” the paramedic says. 

Harry’s scared to answer, because he knows what it will bring, a lot of questions and no answers, “I’m not, but like I said I’ve been looking after him.  _ Please _ , just tell me if he’s okay.” 

The paramedic hesitates to answer and eventually says, “Just wait here for a second.” 

He walks back into the room and Harry tries to look past him into the room, but there’s another paramedic leaning over Louis and he can’t see anything. After a moment, a woman walks out of the room, she has a serious face, but a kind voice. 

“Harry, right?” she asks. 

Harry takes a moment to focus on her, “Yeah, Harry.” 

“I’m Louis’ nurse, Lauren. Nice to meet you,” she says, sticking her hand out to shake Harry’s hand. He takes it, it’s firm and confident. 

“What’s happening?” Harry asks, not really interested in pleasantries. 

“Obviously can’t do proper testing here, but I think Louis is quite severely anemic, he keeps slipping in and out of consciousness. We’re just getting him ready for transport to A&E at Whittington,” Lauren says. 

“He has to go to hospital?” Harry asks, small and afraid, he feels too young for this, but he’s really not.

“It’ll be for the best, I can’t do a blood transfusion here, and that’s what he needs,” Lauren says, and she must see the panic on Harry’s face, “he’ll be fine in a day or so, sounds a lot more scary than it is.” 

Harry let’s a small breath out, a little relief flooding through him, but he can’t keep his eyes off Louis in that bed, he’s too far away. 

“Can I..?” Harry asks with a lump in his throat, gesturing into the room. 

“Yeah of course,” Lauren says, stepping to the side, but she stops Harry with a gentle hand on his arm, “but I’m not sure if you’ll be allowed at the hospital, are you sure there’s no family we can contact?” 

Harry’s stomach drops and that’s what he was afraid of, and he’s certainly not going to leave Louis alone at the hospital, “I’ll see what I can do.” 

He moves past Lauren into the room, standing at the foot of the bed, trying not to get in the paramedic’s way. There’s a detached gurney on the bed beside him, ready to be moved onto its wheels with Louis on it. 

Louis lies on the bed, eyes closed and mouth open slack below the mask, Harry isn’t sure if he’s conscious of not. The oxygen mask isn’t quite in the right spot, the side of his mouth exposed, and there’s monitors hooked up to him, counting things that Harry doesn’t know about. He reaches out to touch the only part of him that he can, he places a hand around Louis’ ankle, feeling a beating heart under the thin skin, but a coolness that is frightening. 

He’s forced to let go of Louis as the paramedics hoist him onto the gurney, and Harry tries not to be so terribly frightened at how limp Louis’ entire body is, his arm falling off the side and having to be placed back on by the paramedic. 

There’s a lot of chatter in the room, and Harry says above the low din, “Louis, I’ll follow behind the ambulance. I’m right here, it’s okay.” He’s more telling himself that than anything else. 

As he says that, Louis is being wheeled past him, and he can’t be sure but he swears he sees the whites of Louis’ eyes, but at next glance they’re still shut. Harry reaches out, small and unsure, to let his hand run over Louis’ arm as he’s whisked out of the room. He watches them carry Louis down the stairs, hand steadying himself on the doorframe, trying desperately to stop his whole body from shaking. 

He takes in a deep breath and tries to compose himself as he turns to Lauren, who is packing up some medical supplies into a large bag, “You said Whittington, right?” 

She looks up at Harry, and there’s a genuine care in her eyes, “That’s right. I’ve called ahead and there’s a private room that they’ll set up with an transfusion. He’ll be there a couple of days I think. Speak to someone named Joan when you get there, she’ll help you out.” 

“Thank you, really, thanks so much,” Harry says, voice a little choked, he spots Louis’ phone on the nightstand and grabs it. He turns on his heel, and as he reaches the front door he sees the ambulance pulling away out of Louis’ front gates. Running to his car, he plugs Whittington Hospital into maps and has to watch the ambulance pull ahead of him in traffic. Lights on and siren wailing. He pictures Louis inside it, feeling incredibly helpless and frustrated. He tries to stop inexplicably angry tears from falling, but can’t quite manage it. 

After only a few minutes he pulls up to the hospital car park, and finds the entrance to the A&E. It becomes quickly clear that the nurse manning the front desk has time in short supply. 

“Joan? Joan who?” he says, shuffling papers and plugging something into the computer in front of him. 

“I don’t know a last name, I was just told to ask for Joan in regards to a patient that’s just been brought in by ambulance, his name is Louis,” Harry says, trying to speak quietly and ignore the few people he can feel staring at him from inside the waiting room. 

“That’s unhelpful, mate. This is a big hospital,” he says, already moving to stand up. 

“Please, just anyone, can you not think of anyone named Joan?” Harry asks, trying not to sound completely desperate, but fuck he is. 

“No, now if you’re n-” 

“You’re looking for Joan?” a woman asks who’s just walked in behind the desk, she’s older but severe looking, with sharp eyes and a thin mouth. 

“ _ Yes _ , yes, I am,” Harry says. 

“In regards to..?” she leads, and relief floods through Harry when he sees her name tag and it reads ‘Hi! I’m your nurse JOAN’. 

“A patient just brought in by ambulance, his name is Louis,” Harry says quickly, repeating what he already said before. He looks around self-consciously for the other nurse, but he’s already disappeared, calling out the name of a patient in the waiting room who is holding their wrist. 

“Come with me,” Joan says, gesturing to a set of doors to their left that she presses a button to open. Harry quickly follows through and looks back momentarily to see a young boy sitting in one of the waiting room chairs with a phone pointed at him, desperately hoping it’s mere coincidence, Harry turns back. Though his rational brain is already trying to figure out if there’s going to be a connection made, his irrational brain says that he really doesn’t give a fuck right now. 

Joan is already a few paces in front of him, and ushers him into another room, Harry wonders momentarily if he’s being led straight to Louis but is disappointed when it turns out it’s a small meeting room. 

“You’re not family, correct?” the woman asks. And  _ God _ , Harry is getting very fucking sick of answering that question. 

“No, I’m not, but I-” Harry starts, but is interrupted by Joan. 

“Then unfortunately I can’t let you come back and see Mr Tomlinson, nor can I divulge any of his medical information to you,” Joan says matter-of-factly. 

Harry feels exasperated and so tired, and he just wants to know if Louis’  _ okay _ . 

“I know him, I’ve been looking after him, his family isn’t aware of his...situation. I think he’d prefer it stay that way,” Harry says. 

“I’m aware you know him, that unfortunately does not preclude you from hospital policy, I’m sorry Mr Styles,” Joan says firmly, and Harry tries to ignore the fact that she knows his name without him saying that. He hates that. 

“I really don’t think you understand,” Harry starts but Joan talks over him before he can continue, with a small raise of her right hand to signal he should stop. 

“No, I probably don’t understand and I’m not asking to either, but that doesn’t mean the rules are going to change,” she says, sounding a little exasperated herself. 

Harry sits down hard in one of the chairs situated around the meeting table, trying very hard not to burst into tears in front of this woman who reminds him of a rather unkind school teacher. But then she sits down in the seat next to him and gently pats his hand, he looks up and her eyes are much softer close up and though her voice doesn’t change, he can tell she’s trying to be warm.

“Look, I may not understand everything, but it’s obvious that you’re concerned. Mr Tomlinson will be absolutely fine, he really will be. If you would like an update on his condition you can wait for him to contact you when he’s feeling better in the morning and he can communicate to us that he would like you on his visitor list, or you can get his family in contact with us,” she explains, and it makes sense. Harry knows it does, it’s not only patient confidentiality, but it’s to keep some semblance of privacy for Louis. 

Harry nods, nibbling at his thumb and eventually sucks in a deep breath. He pulls out Louis’ phone from his jeans pocket and places it on the table next to Joan. 

“Can you give that to him, please? He can give me a call in the morning,” Harry says, completely unsure whether he was making the right decision or not. 

Joan hesitantly takes the phone and places it in her scrubs pocket, “If by chance Mr Tomlinson’s family want to contact me, get them to ask for Joan Bassett from Oncology. Do you have any other questions?” 

Harry has about a hundred more questions, but he shakes his head instead, unwilling to hear that he can't get an answer to any of them, so he says shakily, “No, thanks. You’ve been very helpful though.” 

“You’re welcome,” Joan says, standing and opening the door to the meeting room and pointing down the hallway, “you can head out that exit there instead of through the waiting room again.” 

Harry mutters a small, “Thanks,” as he walks past and ducks his head as he follows the exit signs through a couple of doors until he’s out on another side of the hospital. He takes a deep gasping breath of freezing cold air that seems to turn his very lungs to ice, his throat aches and he has to crouch on the ground to steady himself. The fingers he balances on turn red with cold against the hard concrete of the ground, and he can feel drizzling rain starting to come down from the sky. 

Standing up again, Harry tries to orientate himself towards his car and finds himself inside it a few minutes later. He blasts the heat to try and stop himself from shaking, before realising it’s not necessarily the cold. He stares at his phone, scrolling to find the contact for Lottie he has from years ago, his finger hovers over the top of it for a few moments before he blacks out the screen. He can’t do it. He tries to convince himself that it’s for Louis, that it’s Louis’ decision to make. But it’s also selfish, wholly and completely, he can’t possibly explain this situation to someone he hasn’t seen in years, who probably hates some parts of him. Who could only hate him more after finding out everything. 

Instead he drives back to Louis’ place, missing the turn off for his own home. He makes his way inside, it’s quiet. Lauren has gone home. He climbs into Louis’ bed, it smells like disinfectant and the chemo, musty and metallic, but somehow he still finds it comforting. Plugging his phone in he stares at it, willing Louis to call him, but he doesn't. Harry doesn’t sleep for hours, seeing the time tick past on the alarm clock. There are a couple of calls that come through from people in his management team, one from Jeff, a few texts from mates. He’s too scared to check them, knowing what they’ll probably be saying. The last number he sees is somewhere around 4am, and he eventually falls into a fitful sleep. 

**

Early the next morning, Harry wakes with a start to his phone ringing loudly, having placed it off silent. He scrambles to check it through bleary eyes and almost throws it across the room in frustration when it isn’t Louis, but Jeff again. 

He stares at the phone, not sure if he wants to answer it, but likely before it rings out entirely he answers and places the phone at his ear. It’s not the most pleasant phone call of his life. He finds out that there are pictures of him in the hospital waiting room, and pictures of Louis getting transported inside from the ambulance. There are articles and tweets and a lot of questions. Jeff wants answers to all of them, and Harry just isn’t ready or willing to give them. He’s exhausted and he finds that he just doesn’t give a fuck. This is not his priority and it’s certainly not his business to disclose Louis’ state of health to anyone. In the end Jeff stops asking for specifics and begrudgingly accepts Harry’s weary, “Spin it however you fucking want Jeff, I trust your judgement. I just don’t care. I really don’t.” 

The phone call ends and Harry wanders downstairs to make himself a coffee, always leaving his phone right next to him. There continues to be a barrage of calls, more from friends and a couple even from Gemma. He sends all of them to voicemail, he doesn’t even know what he would say.

The clock ticks on, and it’s nearing midday. His mind swings between feeling unbelievably guilty for not trying to contact Louis’ family, to trying to rationalise that they would have seen the pictures and they would have been in contact with him. He just has to wait on a call. Either from Louis himself or the hospital. 

He’s lying on the couch, trying not to fall asleep when it finally comes. The phone lights up with Louis’ name, just a text, not a call. Harry opens it immediately. 

_ Ive put your name on the visitors list. Room 15 in Oncology.  _

Harry let’s out what’s almost a whine with relief, he texts back quickly,  _ be there in 20. Hope youre okay  _

Louis doesn’t text back, but Harry doesn’t care. He runs upstairs and throws on one of Louis’ hoodies and doesn’t bother changing anything else and gets in the car. It’s not long before he finds himself following signs within the hospital for the Oncology wing, singing in with his ID at the front desk, and he’s outside of Louis’ door. He’s about to run in when he suddenly remembers that he’s probably not the only person that knows anymore, there very well may be other people in that room and he’s not sure if he’s ready to face that quite yet. 

He presses an ear to the door, it’s heavy and thick so he’s not sure the lack of sound he can hear is due to that or there not actually being anyone in the room. He figures he has to find out one way or another and pushes open the door with a small knock. 

This room is smaller than the last Harry saw, but still private, with a bed and a sink and one chair next to the bed. Blessedly, it’s just Louis. He’s sitting up in the bed, looking remarkably better than the previous day, but still so incredibly unwell. He’s got more machines plugged into him that Harry has ever seen before, oxygen under his nose, and a bag of blood hanging beside his bed, unused sick bags littering the bedside table, and a cup of tea in hand, naturally. 

Harry can’t help himself, but despite his stupor he knows he’s crying, he can hear it as if it’s off in the distance. 

“You’re okay,” Harry says stupidly through tears, because of course he is. Every medical professional he talked to said he would be, but it’s different seeing it in person. 

Louis gives him a small smile and places his tea on the bedside table, “Course I am, you idiot.” 

Harry walks into the room and tries to scoop Louis into a hug, but he has to find his way through cords and needles, eventually settling for one hand around his neck and the other holding the side of Louis’ head. Not the most comfortable, but he can feel Louis’ warmth and aliveness and that’s enough. 

“They’re letting me out tomorrow morning,” Louis says as Harry finally lets go and takes a seat on the edge of the chair next to the bed, “just have to come in for a couple of these transfusions over the next few weeks.” 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, they wouldn’t let -” Harry starts but Louis interrupts him. 

“I know, the nurse explained,” Louis says, he looks as though he’s about to say something else but closes his mouth for a moment before saying it, “and thanks for not calling my family. I think it’s something they needed to hear from me.” 

Harry let out a wet laugh, “You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that. I’ve spent the last 24 hours wondering whether I made the right call.” 

“No, you did, you definitely did. But turns out the papers got to them before I did anyway,” Louis says with a grimace, “they’re not too pleased with me.” 

“Oh fuck, Louis I’m so sorry,” Harry says, and he is, but he’s not surprised, he saw some of the articles, they were everywhere. 

“They’re all making their way down now, they were all still up North except for Lottie, she’s coming later today,” Louis says, and he takes his tea with a shaking hand, trying to hide his nervousness. 

“What can I do?” Harry asks, grabbing Louis’ free hand and squeezing it. 

Louis’ mouth twists and Harry sees a tear fall slowly down his cheek, “I just didn’t want to scare them, they’ve been through enough.” 

“I know,” Harry says quietly, “they’ll understand.” 

“I dunno if they will,” Louis whispers, “I fucked up.” 

“You didn’t, you were just trying to protect them. They’ll  _ understand _ ,” Harry presses firmly. 

Louis nods, and coughs a little trying to will away the tears, “We’ll see I guess.” 

There’s a silence and Harry doesn’t let go of Louis’ hand, he doesn’t think he can. 

“Have you gotten any calls from your management?” Harry asks hesitantly, it had to be broached eventually. 

Louis barks out a derisive laugh, “Have I fucking ever, haven’t answered any of them though. Waiting for some suits to show up here instead, storm the floor.” 

Harry tries to ignore the joking, but smiles regardless, “Jeff said he’d handle it from my side, I’m sure someone is in contact from your side.” 

“I’ll have your people call my people,” Louis mutters, and Harry can see him thinking, “Your side? What do you mean by your side?” 

Harry rests his chin in his free hand, “Turns out I got papped in the A&E yesterday asking after you. Not ideal, but it’s happened now, hasn’t it?” 

Louis slowly takes his hand from Harry’s, running his hand over his face, fingering at the cannula under his nose. When he looks at Harry his voice is sad, his eyes even more guarded, “This feels really unpleasantly familiar.” 

And Harry knows exactly what he means. It feels like they are doing something wrong, something dirty and shameful, and that there are problems to be fixed. That  _ they  _ are the problems to be fixed. He remembers the phone calls, the shouting, the pleading, the constant worry. But he also remembers feeling impossibly younger than he does right now, he remembers his emotions getting the better of him, he remembers the bone tiredness of the tours and the meet and greets. 

“But a little different right?” Harry asks, hopeful beyond hope itself. 

Louis keeps looking at him, piercing blue through a watery gaze, “I don’t know Harry, don’t know how it’d be any different.” 

“I’m not saying anything for sure,” Harry starts, “Like, I don’t even know what’s happening or what’s going to happen, but I’m certainly not the same person I was back then.” 

“And I’m not either, but a lot of other people are,” Louis says, voice rising just a little. 

Harry sighs, and he knows it’s true, he just doesn’t want it to be. There’s a heaviness sitting low in his stomach that’s making him feel sick. 

“I just don’t think I can lose you again,” Harry says, putting his fingers deep in his eyes, pushing, willing the tears back in. He can’t stop fucking  _ crying _ . 

He can hear Louis start to say something, but it sounds choked and unfinished, and then he just feels Louis’ hand fall atop his head and thread his fingers through his hair. It feels comforting and terrifying all at once. 

“I thought about you all the time,” Louis says quietly, and Harry doesn’t yet raise his head, “all I wanted to know is if you were happy. Not in the beginning, I was hoping you were as miserable of a fuck as I was. But really, all I ever wanted was for you to be happy.” 

Harry lifts his head then, and sees Louis’ eyes trained on his, “I wasn’t,” he says simply, because it’s true. He felt joy, but it was always different, muted somehow. Even long after he stopped feeling the sting of the heartbreak so freshly. 

“I always thought it was just me,” Louis says, voice thick with tears, “you seemed so much more free. So much happier.” 

Harry almost laughs at that, and he would if it wasn’t so heartbreaking, “I was, I  _ am _ , to a degree. But it’s basically the same, nothing concrete, and nothing confirmed. But hey, at least I can wear what I want.” He finishes bitterly. 

“And you look beautiful doing it,” Louis says quietly, reaching out and wiping a tear away from Harry’s face. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful I can, it feels good. But I still don’t feel genuine, I give so much and none of it’s really what I want to give. Does that even make sense?” Harry says quickly. 

“Yeah, yeah it makes sense, love,” Louis says, and he pauses before saying, “I just don’t want to make you hide again.” 

Harry shakes his head furiously, “It was never you, never you.” 

“It was us. I don’t want to see you like that again, you’re so much more confident now, so much more open,” Louis says earnestly. 

Harry just keeps shaking his head, “If I’m any of those things, it was because of you. Because of how much shit you took for us, I never wanted to do that to you.” 

“It was fine, I’m  _ fine _ ,” Louis says, and Harry doesn’t believe it, because he knows it wasn’t. How much it all took from Louis personally. 

Harry plays with Louis’ fingers, nervously twisting their hands together, “I’d rather have you, in whatever way, I don’t want to assume anything or push anything. I can’t lose you again though, that’s all I know.” 

Louis’ face folds, he looks so torn, torn between protecting their already broken hearts from any more, and holding on to this something they seem to have found in despair. It takes him almost a full minute to reply. 

“You won’t, not letting you go again,” he says, voice low and sure. He leans forwards and presses his forehead into Harry’s and they stay like that for a long while, not knowing what’s to come. Not in the coming days, let alone the next hour. But something feels repaired, and Harry isn’t sure if it’s blind foolishness that led them to this moment, or sheer stupidity thinking they can find a way out of it. Perhaps both. 

However, he feels full here, right now in this moment, and that’s something he hasn’t felt in a long while.

**

-end 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed xx


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